Since the Sun Rose
on repetitive patterns, in conversation with The Iliad; recipe for a mushroom and leek tart (incl. chestnuts)
Friday 8 November, 07:39 am
Every morning, it begins again. A switch, something quick and teasing, somewhat playful, the manner I remember a curtain lifting over a bright stage in front of a curious audience. A new day has its processes and aftermaths, a gaze. The morning comes energised or sleepless, sliding like Achilles’ tendon powers one’s gait, strong but stiff or, as Homer put it:
‘troubled, and his inmost heart
inside his hairy chest was split in two,’
as the sun rises, my heart splits too, both the daughter of the night and an insomniac.
The clocking terror of another day –
news of floods and wars trumping in. Night sweats fuelled by perimenopause. Days birthed with a sword and shaped by blood.
Until the sky warms with the light scent of possibilities,
or a novelty, at the least,
solar in the sky and crisp in the air. And I praise the sunrise for its punctuality.
A repetition begins with an assumption.
Saturday 9 November, 07:41 am
I started a playlist. I added one song and have played it on repeat since. Viscerally, committedly, furiously, passionately. With each listen, I hear a new lyric – or I think that I do, like when I had first learnt English – my ear being trained and, every time I discover a new word, my ego is thrilled. Each repetitive, therefore anticipatable, sequence relaxes my vulnerabilities. I am in control. My ear responds to the recognition, making the rest of my cognitive system feel part of a movement, something easing.
Or taken for granted?
Eventually, I grow sick of the music. As much as I do of my emotions, and I switch to shuffle play. And I begin to dance to the music again, flirting by ear with the challenge, my thoughts flowing again, exposed and confronted—in thinking, uncaged, present.
A repetition can be broken.
Sunday 10 November, 07:43 am
Someone on the radio nicknames the day ‘remembrance Sunday’, but it seems only the History part repeats itself and stories do change and be forgotten. This one needs no introduction to my comrades with a chronic illness and/or pains.
A repetition is symptomatic.
Monday 11 November, 07:45 am
I’m not a better reader than I’m a listener of music. I enjoy not to finish a book, which is different from giving up on it, as I like to read the same book time and again. Sometimes I start from a late chapter because I can’t bear to be clued on how it might happen before it has happened. I want the action, to hear one’s reasons without getting to know the reason behind them. The heart—something present?
One of the books I re-read most often is shelved on my desk: The Iliad by Homer (most recently in Emily Wilson’s translation). The epic poem depicts the final weeks of the Trojan War, which lasted ten years and, most precisely, the quarrel between King Agamemnon and the celebrated warrior Achilles. It is about pride and wrath, as much as it is about passion. I have owned multiple editions of The Iliad over the years, from French to English translations, which I’ve kept in a corner of my desk as I dip in and out of it often to look for a cause to end the plague of insomnia. Eventually, I’m always surprised by the amount of direct speech featured in it. Until I settle in and, finally, listen to the dialogues carefully enough to be reminded that the voices that come through the manuscript are the chorus that draws me to the text, time and again. The Iliad is possibly the most vulnerable work of literature I know – one of the oldest works of literature still being read widely – and it has had no influence. It isn’t trying to anchor itself into a tradition or a movement. It doesn’t want to please. It wants to be read as it pleases. And, reader, it is explosive. There isn’t one emotion that isn’t discussed. There isn’t one feeling that isn’t spoken about. It tells. It doesn’t bother showing what’s unspoken and, quite frankly, I am tired of pretty images.
‘Do not worry.
Set thoughts of death aside. But tell me this,
and tell the truth in every point of detail.’ Says Odysseus.
A repetition can shade new lights too.
Tuesday 12 November, 07:47 am
Grab a leek, slice it; a generous handful of chestnut mushrooms, slice them too. In a casserole, fry the vegetables with a drizzle of olive oil. Lower the heat and preheat the oven to 180C fan. Boil four frozen spinach balls, squeeze them dry and mix with the vegetables inside the casserole. In the meantime, in a bowl, pour 150g of oat cream, 1 teaspoon of paprika, 2 teaspoons of dried thyme and a pinch of salt. Mix well.
[I’d usually break an egg or two to thicken the batter, but I cooked this one for a vegan friend and, I must admit, I had forgotten this detail when I set to cook the tart. I’ve cooked the tart many times over the years; it was my first time cooking for this new friend. I could have thrown a handful of semolina, instinctively, but we had run out of it, so it took a few cupboards’ swipes before I started to grate some chestnuts. Plenty of them.]
Grate some chestnuts into the wet mixture. Combine the batter and the vegetables and mix well. Line a tart tin with a pastry sheet (store bought and vegan, in this instance), prick some holes with a fork and stir in the mixture. Bake for 25-35 minutes, or until golden and cooked throughout.
The next day, there are no leftovers.
To pause instead of repeating the old trick can pave the way for new flavours.
Wednesday 13 November, 7:51 am
If The Iliad is furious, its poetry gathers in pain. Bodies are wounded and names melt inside the fog of a remembrance. The Homeric poem isn’t suspenseful: we know that death is coming for humans and that the deathless gods will feel equally sad and angry, grief-ridden and nonsensical. We know they will bargain for the taste of another life – oh, desperate soul at the sight of disappointment! Of pain. Fearful things. – and we know the negotiations will be harmful. We know the outcome: Troy will fall. Still, stance after stance, as this familiar cast makes more demands and keeps hurting, we return to the line, committing to read more. Because we know this already, almost safely, and it changes nothing, if not the outlook we have over the story. Which line did you take away with you this time? Which death have you chosen to remember? Who are you mourning?
Homer’s epic poem threads repetitions as a rhythmic pattern – a reciprocity between the poet, who is remembering, and the audience, who is eager to remember.
‘Gray-eyed Athena said, “I came from heaven
to hold your fury back, if you will listen.
The white-armed goddess Hera sent me here
because she loves and cares for both of you.
Now stop this quarrel, do not draw your sword.
Taunt him with words and tell him what will happen.
I promise you that this will be fulfilled.
You will receive three times as many gifts
one day, because you suffered this affront.
Listen to me. Hold back.”’
A repetition, as a process, is a soothing tool, a support system that helps to find again what can’t be seen in real life anymore.
Thursday 14 November, 07:53 am
The clock read 6:17 am when I had taken the bread mixture out from the fridge. I was pleased with myself: it had grown into a healthy dough, not over-proofed, smelling malty but not sour. Just right. Or ripe, in a slip of a tongue. Whether I am sleep-deprived or rested, I know what I would like to be doing on a Thursday morning—shaping the dough before sunrise, pre-heating the oven, prepping the casserole, scoring the dough, baking the bread, sending this newsletter to you and eating a slice of bread on the other side of sunrise.
That is, a repetitive pattern that keeps me going.
Friday 15 November, unknown
‘In tears she spoke.
The women wailed in answer. Then among them
Hecuba sobbed and led the lamentation.[…]
In tears she spoke and rouse unending mourning.
And Helen was the third to lead the women
in lamentation, and she spoke among them.[…]
She spoke in tears. The countless crowd of people
wailed in response. Old Priam told the Trojans,
“Now gather wood and bring it to the city,
and fear no ambush from the Greeks. Achilles
promised me, when he let me go away
from his black ships, that they will not attack us
until the twelfth dawn comes.”At this they yoked. . .’
The extract above is from one of my favourite books in The Iliad, which is titled ‘A Time to Mourn’ and is set during Hector’s funeral. For the occasion, Trojans gather wood for ten days, weeping and mourning so they can bring ‘light to mortals’, until they ignite the fire over the lifeless body of their prince and greatest warrior, and the body of ‘brave Hector’ turns to ashes. Disappears. Homer tells us as much, matter-of-factly. Pride couldn’t have saved Hector from his own tragedy. There, inside the twenty-fourth book, I’ll find the answer to why I gave up on the novel I was reading and returned to The Iliad instead, again. And my helpless temptation won’t surprise me, not in an era of mass-grief and fascism. But I bet it won’t be any less conflicting to be confronted with the one truth again, the circle of this life that spirals on and on and on and on. It will be frightening, as ever, to be reminded that, if the problem is us, humanity, then change is within us. And, reciprocally, we, humans, are the solution. Only a solution isn’t granted to be good one. Something must be undone first. A repetitive pattern we must untangle; a repetitive movement we must unlearn.
A repetition is a force, whether positive or negative, cyclic or random.
If the sun had risen, it set too.
16:21 on Friday 8 November
16:19 on Saturday 9 November
16:17 on Sunday 10 November
16:15 on Monday 11 November
16:14 on Tuesday 12 November
16:12 on Wednesday 13 November
16:10 today
16:08 tomorrow
As winter tucks in, the day’s gap inevitably narrows, and I vow to keep an eye on the sky. Send photos of the sun rising to friends. Organise around it as, if the sun will rise, it is too early to say how it will set. Look after each other.
Margaux
*All the quotes listed in this newsletter are from Emily Wilson’s English translation of The Iliad, which I highly recommend (as much as Wilson’s translation of The Odyssey, though my heart is set on The Iliad).
Thank you for reading. I’m Margaux, a writer and cook, and this is my hybrid newsletter. You can find me on Instagram and read about my novels here. If you enjoy this newsletter, feel free to forward it to a friend. You can also support my work by subscribing to The Onion Papers (Thursdays are for long reads and Mondays for annotated recipes, both come out every other weeks, and next up is a dairy-free carrot cake) <3
Simply gorgeous. ❤️❤️❤️