How Context and Narrator Shape the Story
Gian Lorenzo Bernini, Apollo and Daphne, 1622 - 1625, marble sculpture, height 243 cm, Galleria Borghese, Rome. Photo: Alvesgaspar. This file is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 International license.
Last week, I shared an audio file containing my retelling of the myth of Daphne, but I heard that some of you had trouble accessing it. Therefore, I have turned the audio into a written article to ensure everyone can enjoy its content. Now, you can dive into the narrative at your own pace and return to it whenever you wish. Happy reading!
Myths and Malleability
I hope you enjoyed reading the previously published article ‘Myths: A Neverending Narrative’ and the phallic fun fact I added at the end. As you might have noticed by now, I love to throw a phallic pearl of knowledge here and there, so if you’re hungry for more, keep reading my posts! In that article, we also delved into the fascinating world of myths and explored how they've been woven into the fabric of human history. We discussed their origins, power, structure, and their characteristic malleability.
Yes, malleability, that’s the word! Myths are not static stories but somewhat fluid and adaptable, capable of shifting and changing shape to resonate with different audiences. The way a myth is told can significantly impact its meaning and interpretation. Besides, a myth narrated by one person can take on a completely different meaning when retold by another, as you will soon discover by reading my retelling and, spoiler alert, there is a little phallic reference in the story, too.
You will undoubtedly be familiar with the myth that I chose to retell today. Perhaps you have seen a visual interpretation of it while visiting Villa Borghese in Rome or encountered it in written form among the pages of Ovid’s Metamorphoses. Regardless of the medium used, the myth of Daphne perpetually provokes scholarly and artistic intrigue.
My retelling is inevitably influenced by the context in which I live, my ideas, and my experience. Since I am interested in true crime, horror stories, and feminism (what a mix, hey?), my version paints a different image of the sun god than that of Ovid. In fact, in my version, Apollo wears the dark clothes of a sexual predator, while Daphne is one of the countless women who, both in the past and today, experience abuse and objectification.
Giovanni Battista Tiepolo, Apollo Pursuing Daphne, c. 1755 - 1760, oil on canvas, 68.5 x 87 cm, National Gallery of Art, Washington. This file is made available under the Creative Commons CCo 1.o Universal Public Domain Dedication.
My Retelling: Apollo and Daphne’s Chase
The god’s feet moved swiftly, crushing everything between him and his prey. The nymph’s heart pounded soundly, with each thumping rhythm matching the pace of her fleeting footsteps.
‘For Zeus’ sake, leave me alone, Apollo!’ cried the nymph.
‘Stop running away from me, Daphne. Slow down, please, you might hurt yourself and ruin your immaculate skin…’
The nearing pleas of the god had made her once rosy cheeks fade, giving way to a ghostly pallor. Her chest grew heavier as her lungs struggled to catch air, and her eyes let go of a single, twinkling tear that fell on the parched earth, stirring Gaia's compassion. The goddess’s fertile womb birthed roots, forming a silent network of underground arteries that pulsed with a message, alerting tree after tree until it reached the roots quenched by Penéüs’ waters. The river – hearing the message – animated the roots of the ancient oak next to the nymph, and as its underground limbs extended, they seized Daphne’s ankle – paralysed by the cold hug of terror.
Tears streamed from her emerald eyes as Apollo neared, his hand about to grasp hers. When his moist fingers made contact with hers, a web of searching tentacles of agony carved canyons of cracks on her once smooth skin. A haunting cry escaped her, alarming the birds perched on the surrounding branches, creating a dark cloud that loomed over the treetops as her skin tore and flaked. The roots that ensnared her began to creep inside her flesh like maggots, pulsing and crawling, pulsing and crawling as they rippled the surface of her skin, consuming her fleshy tissues until all that remained were wooden limbs.
Jacob Auer, Apollo and Daphne, c. 1688, ivory sculpture, height 43,9 cm, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna. Photo: Manfred Werner (Tsui) - CC by-sa 4.0.
Apollo’s smile wilted as his hand sank into a mass of leaves rather than tender skin. Following the sinuous curves of the brown giant, his chin lifted up as his eyes rested on Daphne’s outstretched arms, which had turned into lush branches. These, reaching for the approaching storm clouds, gently tickled the masses of swirling grey with their green leaves. Apollo’s throbbing excitement waned, receding like waves into the innermost recesses of his being, leaving him with a limp member and an unquenched thirst for burgled pleasure.
‘So, you’d rather be a tree than be possessed by me, you fool little nymph…’
A ghast of wind sent notes of a bittersweet scent to Apollo’s nostrils. His lungs filled with it and swelled his sculpted chest, and as he stroked the rough surface of the tree trunk, he let go a heavy sigh.
‘If you cannot be my woman, you’ll be my tree!’
The sick desire to possess her had not yet vanished. As he reached for the delicate branchlets, he felt the rough texture of the bark beneath his fingertips. Was the wind moving her branches away from him, or was she still escaping his touch? The love madness caused by Cupid’s gold arrow, which had silently transfixed his heart, was still raging inside him. So much so that he wished he had never enraged the flying cheeky god.
He manically began snapping the same branchlets that a moment ago seemed to have escaped his touch, letting the acute and satisfying notes of the snapping twigs fill the air around him. His ears followed the perfect snap while his eyes carefully selected the ideal candidates as his hands slid down the surface of the offshoots, examining their length and thickness. Once the picking was over, he slowly moved away, beginning to weave the branchlets together, his fingers skilfully manipulating the supple wood. As he continued to work, the crown began to take shape, its leaves and tendrils twisting and turning in a graceful dance.
He lost himself in the careful craftsmanship, and when the laurel crown was ready, Daphne’s metamorphosis was over. The nymph, who had gazed into the eyes of the sun god, whose presence radiated with fervent desire, had morphed into a tree and, finally, from a tree into an object.
With a twisted smile painted on his radiant face, the god blurted:
‘Now, my lovely virgin tree, you shall adorn my golden locks and crown my head forever. Hahaha!’
Written by Gabriella Sentina
18/12/2024
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