A public transport stranger

A male in what smelled like his late thirties got on at Melbourne Central. I saw him before he walked through the train doors. He was crestfallen, beaten down by the day - or by what I imagine as too many repetitions of the same day. Over and over, the same routine had engraved very delicate lines into his face, around the eyelids and mouth. Sorrow lines. He seriously looked unhappy and worn out.

He wore a striped business shirt. Navy blue and white, kind of like a gaol-shirt but more sophisticated. He sat, and to my amazement he pulled out a copy of Homer's The Odyssey.

This sweet poor broken human, with his wedding ring like a tiny golden shackle and his dark fitted jacket like a devise used to dehydrate all his character was reading his way through the epic poem. The ultimate epic poem about the hero's journey. The ten years of war followed by the ten years of obstacles. I wondered about this man: who are the lotus-eaters in his life that suck him into hedonism? Who are the unwelcome suitors for his wife's hand and how will he slay them?

How did we, as a species, record such a fable and manage to translate it into so many languages? How did this epic poem that spat its way through generations via the oral tradition manage to slip silently onto paper? Why don't people talk on trains? I would love to be read The Odyssey on my way home.