If the myths derive from a seed of truth, that seed bloomed into a wild garden of infinite variations over the centuries when they were passed down orally. The book claims to be a “lively search for the real Helen of Troy.” In hindsight, both the title (Helen of where?) and the blurb expose the book’s foundational problem: Its launching point is a manipulated fantasy that a “real” Helen, if she ever existed, is recoverable to us.
They seem to be making all the right moves, but it’s effectively a pointless exercise beyond personal gratification. It felt like watching toddlers play with a rubix’s cube. This was my experience reading Bettany Hughe’s Helen of Troy. Have you ever experienced cognitive dissonance reading a book? Where you recognize the parts but not the whole the authors shapes them into?
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