The Myth of Sisyphus

Then I witnessed the torture of Sisyphus, as he tackled his huge rock with both his hands. Leaning against it with his arms and thrusting with his legs, he would contrive to push the boulder uphill to the top. But every time, as he was going to send it toppling over the crest, its sheer weight turned it back, and the misbegotten rock came bounding down again to level ground. So once more he had to wrestle with the thing and push it up, while the sweat poured from his limbs and the dust rose high above his head.

Thus spoke Homer.

But what did Homer know? Was he there? Not at all, not even once! Had he existed then (which he didn't; this was ages before his birth) he would have been living it up on the shores of some imaginary wine-dark sea. He would not have cared about my labours. He would not have helped.

No one helped. Not even the gods, who set me this most difficult of tasks. I do not expect gratitude, of course; my work was for my own benefit as much as for the benefit of mankind. I am no soft and cheerful altruist. Far from it! What I do expect, however, is recognition of my true achievements. Homer has defamed my character. Mythology has twisted the facts. And now I intend to set the record straight.

Let me tell you.

It is true that I was the son of Aeolus and that I founded the city of Corinth. It is also true that I tricked Death and chained him up when he came for me with his long black fingers. With the grim reaper trussed and gagged, mortals could no longer die. This was a situation that could not be allowed to continue, and Zeus intervened. I was forced to release Death and, naturally, I became his first victim.

So far so good. Nothing to complain about there. What the tales do not divulge, however, is that these events took place solely in the minds of the gods. There was no reality in those days. There was no matter of any complexity. Indeed, there was no form beyond the minimal. The four humours, for example, had not yet evolved.

The gods had started to construct the Universe in a sudden burst of nervous energy, but they had quickly grown bored with their creation. They had gone no further than hydrogen. This simplest of all elements was the sum total of the Cosmos. Everything was made out of hydrogen. Except the gods themselves. They had little desire to proceed any further.

Therefore I was scarcely more than a figment of their imagination. Something that irritated me. You might have heard how I used guile to secure a place in the bed of Anticleia, on the eve of her wedding. But I did not really enjoy this lithe maiden: it was all a fantasy, the fleeting dream of one of the deities.

I decided to protest. I demanded my rights. I urged the gods to complete the scheme they had abandoned. But they were weary of manual labour. I offered to do the job for them. They accepted and showed me what to do. I quickly came to realize that their acceptance was an ironic joke. The method they had shown me was well nigh impossible.

But I was bound to it now. I had to persist. By completing the Universe, there was every chance that I might someday exist again and thus enjoy Anticleia in the flesh. That thought prompted me to greater efforts. I gritted my teeth.

I even girded my loins. I am not entirely sure what this means, but I did it. I did it a great many times, over the course of a great many aeons.

It did not help.

Homer (that blind plagiarist!) also implied that my ceaseless task was a punishment because of my impiety. Perhaps it was! Yet he neglected to mention that he owed his own life to this impiety. I gave life to all mankind. Without me, you would all still be figments, vague shadows and moribund images. I am the great benefactor. Prometheus, in comparison, is an ineffectual poseur. He merely gave you fire.

But I am not bitter. Indeed, as a gentle soul with long flowing beard and shaven head, bitterness would not be able to find a place in my heart, even if I wanted it to. I am not angry or resentful. I am simply annoyed.

For instance, consider the boulder I had to roll uphill to the top. This is a poor description of actual events. The boulder in question was a sphere larger, to me, than your whole world. The hill whose crest I could not quite reach was a field of repulsive energy whose magnitude was almost incalculable.

Imagine, if you will, a tiny insect, a solitary mite of the sort that nibble you between the sheets, trying to force together the like poles of two cumbersome electromagnets. Just as the insect has made a small, but essential, progress, the opposing force between the magnets becomes insurmountable. The magnets repel each other again and the insect is back at square one.

Such was the nature of the toil bequeathed to me. And still you wonder why I am annoyed! One day I will add a passage to that one in the Odyssey (in chapter XI, I believe) where Homer described my punishment. The passage will run as follows: