Pressfield’s Hits and Misses

In Steven Pressfield’s Tides of War, effective literary techniques were employed by him in order to transform the lives of the Ancient Greeks during the Peloponnesian War into more relatable ideas that modern audiences could more easily connect with—thus creating various successful elements of a modern novel.  Of course, there were also some techniques that, though Pressfield attempted to make them meet this same standard of relatability, did not succeed.  Two successful attempts which are present in Tides of War will be explored herein, as will one unsuccessful attempt.

The great military leader Alcibiades is, at times, often overshadowed by himself.  We tend not to understand the man, or the times, because of the high exultation that exists within the “mythos of history.”  In other words, there is distinctive pageantry of war that obfuscates “real life” in such a way as to erase some of the more meaningful lessons of history.  Along with this pageantry are the slogging details that must be included for accuracy.  This is an unfortunate attribute to history in general, and there is no lack of it in the description of Alcibiades’ life.  Take the following example from James Romm’s and Pamela Mensch’s book Lives That Made Greek History: 

And while Nicias was trying to dissuade the people from conquering Syracuse, arguing that it would be a formidable undertaking, Alcibiades, dreaming of Carthage and Librya (and once these had been acquired, of encompassing Italy and the Peloponnese), practically regarded Sicily as the ways and means of the war.  And once he had elated the young men with these hopes, and they heard their elders relating many marvelous things about the proposed expedition, many of them would sit in the wrestling-schools and meeting places tracing the shape of the island and the position of Libya and Carthage.  (Romm 137).

Despite all of the hard work that the two authors put in to adapting Plutarch’s dusty yet vastly important and telling work Lives for modern readers, there is still a bit of dustiness that cannot be avoided—the grandeur of description for Alcibiades and the general description of his admirers distances both Alcibiades as well as the common man of the times from readers because there is no personal connection.  And there is also the inevitable requirement of a multitudinous amount of place names which ensures that this passage read like a Thomas Guide.  These two aspects—the distancing of readers and the monotony of place—make it rough to really put oneself in the moment.

It can be argued that Steven Pressfield was well aware of these types of relatability issues because his writing addresses them to an almost spooky degree of specificity.  In the following passage, Pressfield also includes a description of the place and people, but to a marked difference in reader effect: 

Any encampment massed upon one site for a prolonged interval becomes, as you know, Jason, a city of its own.  Its market becomes the agora, its training fields the gymnasium.  The polis, battling boredom, throws up its own diversions and distractions, its characters and its clowns.  There is a good part of town and a bad, a neighborhood one enters at his peril and a precinct of privilege and fame, which exercises its spell overall.  Invariably one tent establishes itself for the brilliance of its occupants as the epicenter of the camp.  (Pressfield Ch 5)

Here the encampment that the main character is describing goes from what would have been a generic encampment to something much richer that the reader can feel and taste and smell.  There is no multitudinous repetition here.  As a side note, it is also interesting to see how nomenclature specific to the days of Ancient Greece is peppered in among the description in such a way where it is contextually planted in order to make the reader feel as if the words are their own, thus removing the foreignness of distant history and replacing it with a word that is of the now, new even because of its earlier unknown quality.  The use of the word “polis” in this quoted passage is an excellent example of this.  

What is even more interesting about the description of this encampment and its details is that not only does the place go from being interesting and able to be really felt, as described above, but it also becomes a character all on its own:

To my surprise, and in contrast to the other snug-battened precincts of the camp whose lanes stood dark and vacated save the odd trooper dashing from one shelter to another in the cold, the court fronting Alcibiades’ tent burned bright with torch and brazier, the intersection of the lanes milling gaily with a motley of off-duty officers and infantrymen, wine sellers, jugglers, sweets bakers, a party of acrobats in midperformance upon a stage of logs, and a professional fool, not to mention a number of gap-toothed trollops from the whores’ camp, loitering in high spirits.  The aroma of spitted meat augmented the cheer, bonfires blazed upon the earth, which had thawed and was churned by the press of celebrants.  (Pressfield Ch 5)

The camp area around Alcibiades’ tent has a vivacity that you can smell, a personality.  The camp is initially described as “snug-battened”  and “dark and vacated”  which creates a sense of coldness—not just from the description of the weather, but also because there’s an emptiness.  Even though this is the place where these soldiers live, its formation is unwelcoming where its inhabitants must dash for “shelter.”  But then the court around Alcibiades’ tent is described as a warm constantly alive place that with its Hellenistic culture was nearly bacchanalian or even Unseelie in its reverie.  This creates a sense where the readers feel that this place is the one place to be; acceptance here is acceptance in an ultimate sense and admission into the top echelon of desirable status.  

Pressfield utilized both grandeur as well as of a sense of humbleness in an effective characterization of the people of the time so that the readers could identify with both glorified leaders and those who are at the very bottom and will go unrecognized by history.  Both the high and the low are represented with literary speech both commonplace and exalted.  Here is an example of the exaltation of the high:  

Experience teaches that however numerous the brigade or army, the work of war is performed by small units, and each must possess to be effective one-man like Lion who is unacquainted with fear, who arises cheerful each morning despite all hardship, ready to shoulder another’s load with a laugh and turn his hand to all tasks, however, mean or humble.  A unit lacking a man like Lion will never endure, while one with such a mate may be beaten but never broken. (Tides Ch 5)

This encapsulates a juxtaposition between the small and the great. While the responsibility for the work of war is admittedly done by the small unit, these units are decidedly grand through the work they do. And each small group, composed of even smaller individuals, contains an anonymous Lion who embodies the greatness that all soldiers strive for.  And here we see an example of something much more down to earth, which allows the audience to truly feel as if they are there with the character experiencing this life that is being described:

 It was a porous siege.  On the line, the troops had more intercourse with the enemy than with their own countrymen.  We sold food and firewood; the Potidaeans traded treasure.  Gold first, then jewelry and linen.  They sold their armor and their swords.  From midwinter, they were peddling their daughters.  (Tides Ch 5)

Both examples highlight that emotion and connection are provided for the reader by Mr.  Pressfield through literary means.  It can be said in histories and ancient texts that things are grand and great, or terrible and fearful, or even status quo—but the language common to such accounts does not bring those accounts to life.  This is why the position of master-storyteller is such an important position.  This is why Bards have a nearly mystical regard among the histories of the past.

However, Pressfield does have his failings.  In a description of Alcibiades’ tent, there is a moment where the tent-mates are described that seems to fall back into the repetition of place names that were mentioned as a negative among non-fictional accounts of history.  In the list that Pressfield provides, the repetitions are not place names, but names of people.  It would seem that it might be more difficult to portray a list of interesting people so boringly that it sounds like one is reading from the index of an atlas, but Pressfield has pulled this feat off.  The description of the place is good—to the level of including the place described as if it was a character among the main characters of the story.  However, once the shorthanded list of those who accompany Alcibiades is begun, the depth and richness are bled away to a mere handful of details attempting to supplant real writing:

Alcibiades’ tent, Aspasia Three (the main streets of the seven fortified camps ringing the city had been named each after a famed courtesan of Athens), had become this nexus.  This was in consequence not alone of his celebrity but of the wit and converse of this tentmates, who included in their number of sixteen your own master Socrates (renowned then less as a philosopher than a doughty and stalwart campaigner, forty years of age), the celebrated actor Alcaeus, Mantitheus the Olympic boxer, and Acumenus the physician.  These fellows were the most fun.  Everyone wanted to be with them.  An invitation to dine at Aspasia Three was more highly prized than a decoration.  For that reason I have avoided Alcibiades, not wishing to push myself uninvited upon him and also because I judged the status of our friendship to be cordial but remote.  (Pressfield Ch 5)

If Pressfield had indeed wanted to make this list come alive—as alive as the mere tent he had been describing earlier—then he should have personalized the list as opposed to using sensationalized language in referencing the characters with a quick shorthand that doesn’t allow for a building connection with the readers.  This novel is a recreation of the past so that the readers can experience it almost as if they were there, distancing language and shorthand has no place in such a work.  

In conclusion, it has become crystal clear why it is important to introduce the methods of storytelling among the histories.  Embellishment is an inappropriate method to use when dealing with non-fiction; but it becomes absolutely necessary in making the history truly, deeply, and actually felt when dealing with certain specific instances—most notably in details and descriptive language.  Pressfield was very successful in his attempt, despite there being instances of flatness among the greater parts of his work.  One can only hope that authors such as he continue to inspire and amaze the rest of the world with accomplishments and fates that we, who are in fact the actual “rest of the world,” have already undertaken.