Book Review: "The Palace of Eros"
In this retelling of the myth of Cupid and Psyche Caro De Robertis' shows the enduring queer appeal of some of western literature's most enduring tales.
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If you’re a regular reader of Omnivorous, then you’ll no doubt know that I am a huge fan of myth retellings. Fortunately for me, we seem to be living in one of those periods where those stories are being pushed onto shelves almost as soon as publishers can get them printed. Even though they vary widely in terms of quality, you still won’t hear me complaining. I always seem to have one foot in antiquity, so I am gobbling up these various retellings as fast as I can.
One of the more remarkable of such books is Caro De Robertis’ The Palace of Eros. As one might gather from the title, the book is a modern retelling of the myth of Cupid and Psyche, though with a few twists. Foremost among them is the fact that Eros is here presented as being what we would call nonbinary, capable of assuming a male or female form, as well as one that is both and neither. This is one of those takes on myth that seems so obvious in hindsight but which hasn’t really been done quite this way before; after all, if there’s one ancient deity who seems to thwart the gender binary, then surely it’s Eros?
The book is essentially a split narrative, with half of it detailing Psyche’s troubled youth, ruled over by her tyrannical father. Things abruptly change when she is sent away to be married to a monster, and much of the book focuses on her remarkable bond with Eros who, as so often in the myth, doesn’t let Psyche see her. While Psyche’s point of view is rendered in the first person, Eros’ is in the third person, and many of her chapters (though technically nonbinary, she is frequently referred with female pronouns) focus not just on her relationship with Psyche but also with her mother, Aphrodite, and the other gods.
As becomes clear throughout the novel, Eros is one of those deities who is not content, or able, to be bound by the strictures and structures that govern the lives and beings of the other residents of Mount Olympus, whether it’s her mother or Zeus. The latter in particular is a toxic influence on her life, even going so far as to impose strict limits on when and how Eros can adopt her in-between body. Such is the threat she poses to the established order of things that no less a figure than the king of the gods himself has to intervene in order to make sure that she follows the rules.
Indeed, the sinister nature of patriarchal power is one of the novel’s major concerns, emerging both in terms of Zeus–who is, after all, the father of the gods–but also in Psyche's own father, who, like many other ancient Greek men of his age and status, seems to see his daughter as little more than an extension of himself. It’s for this reason that he offers her up for the visual delectation of nearby men, and it’s also why he’s quite sanguine about sending her off to her marriage, even though a prophecy has foretold that she will marry a monster.
Fortunately, however, Eros and Psyche find the passion and love with one another that they have largely been denied by the world around them, particularly the men in their lives. Caro De Robertis waxes lyrical (sometimes a bit too lyrical, but more on that in a moment) as Psyche finally comes to appreciate her body and the pleasures it offers, even as she falls head over heels with her husband, for all that she has never seen her in the daylight. De Robertis excels at giving us a remarkable portrait of a love that will live down through the ages, in all of its peril and its beauty, its terror and its joy. After all, one doesn’t fall in love without knowing that one’s entire life is going to be turned upside down, for both the good and the bad.
I’ve read some reviews that have found De Robertis prose to be a bit turgid, and it is true that it does tend to verge into the purple at times. This is particularly noticeable when it comes to Psyche’s point of view, and one suspects that this may be because there’s really not much for Psyche to do while she is holed up in Eros’ palace. As a result, De Robertis spends quite a few pages giving us increasingly ornate insight into Psyche's State of mind, as well as showing the way that her love for Eros has transformed her relationship with herself, her body, and her desires (there’s a whole thing with a fig tree. Don’t ask). Still, I relish a bit of purple prose, and I think that De Robertis’ writing does get to some crucial truths about the revolutionary power of queer desire.
What’s more, I also did sometimes find that the novel felt too short. Even though Psyche's relationship with her sisters is as complicated as it often is in both the original myth and its retellings–such as C.S. Lewis’ Till We Have Faces–it doesn’t really get the resolution that it deserves. After they manage to goad Psyche into the infamous moment in which she shines a light on the sleeping Eros, they largely disappear from the story. This struck me as a bit of a missed opportunity, as does the absence of Psyche’s mother, who is one of the few mortals with whom she seems to have a positive relationship. Likewise, I would have liked to see a bit more resolution regarding Eros’ relationship with her mother Aphrodite (mothers are, as you would imagine, a key element of this story).
That being said, I really did enjoy The Palace of Eros. It’s one of those rare myth retellings that manages to stay true to the supporting structures of the myths as they have come down to us while also making enough changes to make it relevant for a modern audience. I’m always on the hunt for a retelling that comes at least somewhat close to the heartbreaking beauty and poignancy of The Song of Achilles, and I daresay that The Palace of Eros might just be one of those. It shows once again that there is a lot of queer power and relevance in our oldest stories and that, when we embrace our desires, there’s nothing we can’t do.