When Nietzsche returns to Sils Maria with each new translation of Homer, eternal recurrence becomes a matter of footnotes, scars, and disguise.

By Michael Cummins, Editor, September 18, 2025

It begins with a joke that insists on being taken seriously: that Friedrich Nietzsche shows up in Sils Maria whenever another translation of The Odyssey arrives, like a critic doomed to review the same book forever. He doesn’t need them, of course—he could spar with Homer in the original Greek long before most of us had mastered the alphabet. But each new version lures him back to the lake, as though Odysseus himself had slipped ashore in yet another borrowed tongue. Translation is just another disguise; recurrence, another mask. Nietzsche, who built his philosophy on both, seems condemned—or seduced—to reread the wanderer endlessly, as if the Engadin Alps demanded it as tribute.

He had come back to the lake, the same one that had once whispered eternity into his ear. Nietzsche sat by the water at Sils Maria, Mendelsohn’s new translation of The Odyssey spread across his knees, the pages bright in the alpine sun. He read not out of admiration, but suspicion. His own idea—eternal recurrence—had haunted him for years. He wondered now, with the weight of illness and solitude pressing harder than ever, whether recurrence was survivable. Odysseus would be his test.

From the first line, the Muse seemed to speak directly into the thin Engadin air: “Tell me, Muse, of the man of many turns…” Nietzsche felt the word polytropos twist through him—not merely “wily,” but turned and turning, fragmented, caught in endless motion. Was recurrence not the same: the self turning upon itself until it fractured into multiplicity? He traced the letters with a frail finger, the ink seeming to pulse with a life of its own. This wasn’t just a poem; it was a mirror held up to his deepest philosophical anxieties. To be polytropos was to be a kaleidoscope of selves, a truth Nietzsche had long espoused but now felt not as liberation but as dizziness. What if the self, in its endless turning, simply wore away?

The air was high and crystalline, but his body was not. Migraines came like daggers, sudden and merciless, blinding him to light. His stomach soured; food betrayed him. He walked hunched, exhausted, restless. He had broken with Wagner, grown estranged from academia, wandered from city to city like a ghost of his own philosophy. At Sils Maria he wrote not to clarify but to survive. The mountains had become his Ithaca—severe, withholding, demanding. Unlike Ithaca, they offered no promise of rest at the end of wandering. They were recurrence itself, permanent and pitiless.

He had paced these paths before. In 1881, by a great stone shaped like a pyramid at the lake’s edge, he had first conceived the thought of eternal recurrence: that every moment must be lived again, endlessly, without remainder. The revelation had come not as a triumph but as a chill—something he later called “the most abysmal thought.” Even now, the air smelled of resin and cold stone, the scent of pine needles bruised underfoot. The wind moved through the valley like a slow instrument, its tones alternating between whisper and moan. Here, philosophy never separated from sensation; thought rose and fell with the mountain’s breath.

The lake shimmered, but not as a mirror. It was a mirror that refused to reflect, a surface that yielded nothing but depth. Nietzsche had always felt the valley was Ithaca’s double—clarity above, abyss below. To return here was to return to a place that was never the same twice, a home that asked if one could ever come home at all. Odysseus too had seen the multiplicity of the world: “He saw the cities of many men, and learned their minds.” What better philosopher could Nietzsche imagine than this wanderer who turned from city to city, discovering that no truth was singular?

But even heroes were not guaranteed their ends. Athena’s warning in Mendelsohn’s cadence hung in the alpine stillness: “Even now, your homecoming is not assured.” The words might have been addressed to Nietzsche himself, a man without a home in Basel, Turin, or Leipzig, wandering in body and in thought. What was eternal recurrence, after all, if not the refusal of safe arrival, the demand that the journey itself be endlessly relived? It was a homecoming that never concluded, an arrival that dissolved into another departure.

He turned another page. The man of cunning sat by the sea and broke down: “Odysseus wept, hiding his face in his cloak, ashamed to be seen crying.” Nietzsche lingered here. He knew the shame of breakdowns, the humiliation of migraines that felled him for days, the solitude that left him in tears. Here was a hero who did not embody Apollonian restraint but Dionysian excess—grief that refused the mask of virtue. This was not the strong, stoic figure of schoolroom myth, but a man undone by the weight of his suffering, a man who had faced monsters and gods only to be brought low by simple grief. Nietzsche saw himself in that cloak.

And then another voice, colder: “The gods have long since turned their faces away.” The line struck like an echo of Nietzsche’s own pronouncement that God was dead, that divinity had withdrawn, leaving only men to endure. Odysseus, abandoned, becomes the emblem of modern man—staggering forward in a world emptied of divine assurance. In this vacuum, there was no plan, no destiny, only the sheer will to survive. Nietzsche, who once joked that his only companions were his books and his headaches, could hardly disagree.

Yet how different this Odysseus was from the ones Nietzsche had met in other tongues. Fagles gave us a noble Odysseus, his voice rich and grand, swelling with dignity. Fitzgerald offered a modernist one, lean and sharp, almost severe. Wilson gave us an Odysseus brisk and lucid, her lines crisp as salt air. But Mendelsohn’s Odysseus was something else—fractured, recursive, morally ambiguous—a man who could have walked beside Zarathustra and argued in riddles. Even the openings diverged: Fagles gave us “the man of twists and turns,” Fitzgerald “the man skilled in all ways of contending,” Wilson “the complicated man.” Mendelsohn’s “many-turned” suggested not mastery but fracture—caught in perpetual reconfiguration. Nietzsche raised an eyebrow at this crowded gallery of Odysseuses, as if wondering whether Homer himself would recognize any of them.

Nietzsche’s fingers tightened on the book. Telemachus’s words surfaced next: “He spoke not as a king, but as a man who had suffered.” This was the recognition—father to son, philosopher to survivor. Not majesty, not nobility, but suffering itself as the currency of truth. Was this not Nietzsche’s fate, to speak no longer as professor or system-builder, but as a man undone, scarred by solitude? His philosophy was not a polished edifice but aphorisms wrested from pain. It was a philosophy of the wound.

A hawk circled above, its shadow sliding across the lake. The thought of inheritance pressed on him, the futility of lineage. Homer’s line followed, with its brutal candor: “Few sons are the equals of their fathers; most fall short, all too few surpass them.” Nietzsche could not escape the question of whether he had surpassed his own philosophical fathers—Schopenhauer, Wagner, Plato—or whether he had only fallen short, a son estranged from every lineage. Surpassing required rupture, a violent break. He had done this, but at what cost? He was a son without a father, a successor without inheritance.

Mendelsohn’s commentary pierced further: “But which is the true self? the Odyssey asks, and how many selves might a man have?” Nietzsche closed his eyes. He had written that truth is a mobile army of metaphors, that the self is nothing but a mask. But Homer had already staged the question: Odysseus, beggar and king, father and liar, scarred and disguised, endlessly polytropic. To be true, one must be many. The self was not a solid, unchanging thing, but a performance. The mask was the face. Nietzsche, who often signed his letters “Dionysus” or “the Crucified” depending on his mood, could hardly deny it.

A breeze lifted the page, and another voice arrived, softer, almost contemporary: “We all need narrative to make sense of the world.” Nietzsche scoffed, then paused. He had rejected metaphysics, rejected God, rejected morality—but had he not always returned to story? Zarathustra was not an argument but a parable. Perhaps Odysseus’s voyage was not philosophy’s rival but its secret ally: narrative as the vessel of truth. Even he, the self-proclaimed destroyer of systems, had relied on fables to smuggle his most dangerous ideas into the world.

He came at last to the moment of recognition: “He knew the scar, though the rest had changed.” The line startled him. Eurycleia’s recognition of Odysseus was not by face, but by wound. Memory was not intellectual—it was embodied, etched in pain. Could eternal recurrence itself be recognized in the same way? Not by sameness, but by scars carried forward?

Here Nietzsche faltered. In The Gay Science, he had asked whether one could will the same life again and again. In Ecce Homo, he claimed to embrace his fate—amor fati. But Mendelsohn’s Odysseus offered no affirmation, only ambiguity. He returns, yes—but as a stranger, a beggar, a killer. Recurrence here is not comfort. It is metamorphosis: arriving at the same place with a different soul.

He closed his eyes and imagined a dialogue across time.

“Tell me, cunning man,” he asked, “what does it mean to return?”

Odysseus did not answer. He lifted his tunic and showed the scar on his thigh. Nietzsche pressed.

“You endure, but to what end?”

At last Odysseus spoke, his voice neither triumphant nor despairing. “To return is to wear the same name with a different soul.”

Nietzsche hesitated. “You speak of endurance. But what of joy?”

Odysseus’s gaze was steady. “Joy is not what brings you back. It is what allows you to remain, even when you no longer know who you are.”

Nietzsche’s voice broke. “I have dreamed recurrence. I have feared it.”

“Then you are not yet home.”

“And you?” Nietzsche asked.

“I returned,” Odysseus said. “But I did not arrive.”

Nietzsche waited, but Odysseus spoke again, almost like a riddle: “Every disguise is also a truth. Every mask you wear wears you in return.”

The silence thickened. The mountain stood like a question, the lake like an answer withheld. The survivor explained nothing. He endured.

It would have been enough, this single reading at the lake. But recurrence demands more. Nietzsche returns again and again, each time when Homer is born anew in a different tongue. He returns to Sils Maria, the pyramid-shaped stone waiting, the lake unaltered, the text altered.

In 1781, Johann Heinrich Voss gave Germany its definitive Homer. A century later, Nietzsche, young philologist turned philosopher, read Voss with admiration and disdain. He respected the fidelity, the hexameters hammered out in German. But he muttered that Voss’s Homer was too polished, too Apollonian—Homer in a Sunday coat. Nietzsche’s Homer was wilder, bloodier, Dionysian.

In 1900, Samuel Butler gave the world a Victorian prose Odyssey, rational, stripped of song. Nietzsche returned that year in ghostly form, reading Butler on the lakeshore. He scoffed at the flattened prose, the “rosy-fingered dawn” now blanched into English daylight. Odysseus, robbed of meter, was Odysseus disarmed.

In 1946, E.V. Rieu launched the Penguin Classics with his plainspoken prose. Nietzsche reappeared, bemused at this “Odysseus for commuters.” Clarity, yes—but clarity was its own disguise.

In 1961 Fitzgerald sang a lyrical Odysseus, swift and elegant. Nietzsche walked the path again, whispering: too beautiful, too smoothed. In 1965 Lattimore countered with severity, lines stiff as armor. Nietzsche admired the discipline, but found no scar.

In 1996, Fagles delivered an Odysseus swelling with grandeur. Nietzsche laughed aloud. “A Wagnerian Odysseus!” Too sweeping, too theatrical—Odysseus as opera. And yet, in its excess, he recognized a brother.

In 2000, Lombardo turned Odysseus into a fast-talking street trickster. Nietzsche smiled darkly: here at last was cunning made colloquial. He imagined Odysseus haggling in a Neapolitan market.

In 2017, Emily Wilson arrived, the first woman to translate the Odyssey into English. Nietzsche lingered longest here. Odysseus was no longer simply the hero of endurance; he was reframed as a survivor, stripped of glamour, his slaves called “slaves,” not “maids.” Nietzsche paced the lakeshore, struck by how recurrence could reveal something genuinely new. For the first time, he felt Odysseus’s masks pierced by another’s.

In 2021, Barry Powell emphasized precision, the scholar’s Homer, clean and correct. Nietzsche shook his head. Exactitude without ambiguity was another mask, no less false.

And in 2025, Mendelsohn. At last Nietzsche was there in the flesh, not as ghost but as man. Mendelsohn’s Odysseus was fractured, scarred, cunning, forever altered. This Odysseus was recurrence embodied. Nietzsche closed the book by the lake, heavier now, and whispered: perhaps the philosopher, too, must become a poet to survive.

The sun slipped west across the water. The lake shimmered, but now it was deeper. Nietzsche rose slowly, frail yet fierce, and stepped into the forest. He did not know if he would come this way again. But he knew coming back was not arrival. And perhaps, in the hush between pines, he felt another step beside him—the rhythm of sandaled feet, the shadow of a wanderer who had survived not by truth but by disguise.

The path ahead was a scar, and he knew he would walk it again and again, forever returning as a stranger to his own home.

THIS ESSAY WAS WRITTEN AND EDITED UTILIZING AI