Weight: The Myth of Atlas and Heracles by Jeanette Winterson

I've always liked the Greek Myths. I have very early memories of sitting with a kids book version of them with my Uncle Dan (I think) reading about Hera and Iris. I liked the stories about Poseidon. I loved all the changing into animals and crazy hijinks. It was a cleaned up kid's version of the myths clearly. Still I didn't mind the more sinister and sordid overtones when I was older. If anything, they made the stories more relevant to me.

One myth I always disliked though was the story of Heracles. I was always torn between sympathy (because it really wasn't his fault that Zeus is a divine horndog) and contempt because he was such a crude character with rocks for brains. Karen Armstrong says that he's a holdover from the earlier myths of the paleolithic era which makes sense. After all, he has a club. I just have a hard time rooting for a muscle bound pretty boy.

By contrast, Atlas always seemed to get a bum rap. I mean the guy is systematically stripped of all his belongings and eventually punished to carry the entire universe on his shoulders. Even then he can't be left alone, Heracles comes along to 1. remind him of what he's lost by sending him after the golden apples and then 2. tricks him back into his punishment. Just doesn't seem fair.

I found Winterson's adaptation satisfying. Heracles was every bit the dispicable over-sexed lout I always imagined him to be and Atlas was the compassionate figure I always wanted him to be. I even liked how she folded the modern era into the story at the end. It really seemed correct somehow.