What 'The Odyssey' Can Teach Us About Browning

Like half the nation’s commentariat, it seems, I saw Christopher Nolan’s version of The Odyssey this summer. My purpose here is not to offer yet another amateur cinematic critique, but rather to revisit a back-to-school letter I wrote nearly a decade ago.  In that note, I reflected on my own experience teaching The Odyssey for 15 years, and the particular importance that the concept of hospitality—”Zeus’s Law” in the Nolan film; “xenia” in the Homeric tradition—plays in the moral vocabulary of the epic. 

In archaic Greece, the custom of xenia was strongly codified, for both hosts and guests.  The host was expected to welcome the guest, refrain from questions until the guest had been fed and bathed, and ultimately send the guest on their way with some sort of gift.  The proper guest, in turn, would not insult the host, make demands, or refuse hospitality, and would also offer the host a gift upon parting. The practice was significant both religiously (its rites were protected by Zeus) and functionally (among uncertain foes and dodgy travel, xenia could offer reliable protection), and the moral and heroic worth of The Odyssey’s central characters can be evaluated by their adherence to, or departure from, the conventions of the host-guest relationship.   

An example of strikingly poor xenia emerges when Odysseus and his sailors visit the island of the Cyclopes, where the one-eyed ogre Polyphemus demands to know their identity, offers them no gifts, and eats some of the crew. In contrast, late in the epic—though unseen in the Nolan film, sadly—Odysseus washes up on the shore of the island of Phaeacia, where as a naked stranger he is immediately bathed, clothed, and presented with a feast. At the palace of the king, the lords of the island present him with gifts of cloaks and gold—only then do they ask Odysseus for his name and story—before outfitting him with a ship and more treasure for his journey home.  

Connecting a Homeric travel custom with contemporary independent schooling may seem a stretch—certainly, my students often entered our discussions thinking so—but there are important correspondences to observe. There is, of course, the notion of academic inquiry as a journey into the unknown, a journey adorned with exciting discoveries, momentary setbacks, and the hard-won acquisition of knowledge and wisdom.  This metaphor may be shopworn, but it still entices all of us who have seen a boy grow stronger—more heroic, even—in his thinking, resilience, compassion, and imagination during a given school year.  

But for me, the relevance of xenia to Browning resides principally in the power of connection. As a system, xenia relied on mutual understanding and good will: The host would extend the finest a household had to offer, not only to placate the Olympian deities, but because the host connected with the guest—and because the host might rely upon the kindness of others at some future date. The guest, on the other hand, would return the host’s munificence with respect and courtesy of his or her own, and in further travels would extend the host’s reputation for honor and good will. At its best, the convention would produce not only security for participants but also a true sense of fellowship, one based on genuine affection and generosity of spirit. With proper xenia, with joyful participation, the host and guest could create community within a larger, sometimes unforgiving world.

So it is with a Browning education. Though adults and boys alike can play either role during the course of a year, our teachers can be most readily seen as the hosts of students who travel through an unfamiliar intellectual and emotional circumstance. We certainly owe these young guests the finest that our school has to offer: A sense of welcome, the gifts of adult care and wisdom, and—like the Phaeacians patiently waiting for Odysseus’s tale—an abiding interest in the boys’ own stories of themselves. (And we feed them, too.) For their part, our boys—whatever their age—can inhabit the virtues of the guest; indeed, they not only offer respect for the people and opportunities of school, but also accept hospitality in allowing themselves to be coached, challenged, and encouraged. And there is surely the mutual exchange of gifts, whether it is thoughtful curriculum, meaningful feedback, and emotional sustenance from the teacher-host, or the student-guest’s novel interpretations, open mind, and personal trust.  

As in Homer’s time, this relationship may begin transactionally—an orderly and secure classroom environment surely benefits all—but at its best this exchange becomes something transcendent: A genuine mutual regard that makes discharge of duties a truly joyful thing. And then, just as it was 3,000 years ago, a sense of community is created within a larger, sometimes unforgiving world. This is exemplary xenia; this is a true Browning education.