H of H Playbook by Anne Carson

  There will come a day, or series of days, when I finally stop confusing Anne Michaels and Anne Carson, but that day hasn’t yet arrived. The last time I read Anne Carson was when I picked up The Autobiography of Red, and when my partner and I saw the format of H of H Playbook in the poetry section of a book store, she picked it up immediately, knowing nothing about it.

The reason for that is because H of H Playbook is an oddly shaped rectangle that opens up to part play-script part scrapbook part art collection. That’s one of the highlights of Carson’s book: there’s a haphazardness to it, as though these fragments are compiled from an ancient manuscript for a play about Herakles lost to time. In fact, one of the opening pages denotes the book as a translation of Euripides’ play first performed in 416 BC—a statement that quickly becomes ludicrous when reading the rest of the text.

Carson’s “translation” is replete with modern colloquialisms and allusions to events that happened centuries after Euripides’ death. In particular, there are references to Jane Austen and the Bolshevik revolution, and so on. This approach gives the book a whimsical freshness that helps to enliven the classic tale, which is, in my view, in need of it.

I’m not a classicist. I know very little about the ancients and discussion of Greek gods often slips through my ears. Reading the back of the book was critical for me to really process the book. Herakles is a hero who goes off on labours to defeat enemies and kill monsters and whatnot. The book makes reference to about two of them explicitly and then glosses over the other ten as boring retrod ground. Apparently, Herakles also went beserk and killed his whole family before considering suicide. In Anne Carson’s version, it’s somewhat implied that he has PTSD and that he has a psychotic episode in the same way a Vietnam veteran might. At the same time, it’s as though he’s controlled by malicious Gods. Again, Carson blends the ancient explanations for more contemporary ones.

A number of aspects of the book remain obscure to me. It’s one of those unfortunate things about revising the classics: the commentary and elaboration of the classics is often more impressive to me than the classics themselves, but I also don’t know the source material well enough to make the discussion truly meaningful. So, when the redwinged man shows up or when Theseus shows up to guide Herakles away, the significance is sort of lost on me.

The artwork is what really helps to clarify the spirit of the book. First, the text is presented in small fragments, sometimes isolating a single phrase on a page to elevate its emotive power. The artwork throughout the book embodies a kind of loose style, occasionally depicting sketched human forms and often splashes of colour. Red for violence and blood. Yellow and blue strips when the mood changes. All of them adding to a sense of disorder mimicking Herakles’ disordered misadventures, perhaps.

I’ll have to admit: the story of Herakles is not close enough to my heart for this book to really rock my world. It’s a nice, short book, but one I’m not likely to return to or have linger with me. I appreciate its inventiveness as an experiment and multigenre text and the way it makes time fold over itself. I’m sure there’s a genius at work here; I’m just not smart enough to really let this book thrive.

Happy reading!