What Myths Does Circe Book Retell For Modern Readers?

If you’re curious about which myths 'Circe' retells, think of it as a remix: Miller takes the Circe-of-'The Odyssey' episode (men-to-pigs), then layers in origin lore about gods and Titans, and works in the tales of Scylla’s transformation and the painful, messy endings that involve Odysseus and Circe’s son, Telegonus. She sprinkles in encounters with clever mortals — like Daedalus — and echoes of sorceresses like Medea, so readers get a broader panorama of mythic women.

But the real retelling is thematic: transformations — literal and emotional — exile, motherhood, and the quiet revenge of survival are all foregrounded. For modern readers, that means familiar legends become intimate, human stories rather than distant set pieces, and you start to notice how many myths pivot around power and voice. I finished the book wanting to reread primary sources and compare notes, which is about as enthusiastic a recommendation as I give these days.

Honestly, when I picked up 'Circe' I was struck by how Madeline Miller stitches together an entire tapestry of Greek stories and makes them feel like neighbors dropping by for tea. The core myth she retells is the one everyone thinks of first: the episode from 'The Odyssey' where a sorceress turns men into pigs. Miller keeps that transformation scene but rewrites it from the woman’s point of view, turning what was once a one-off monster into a whole life.

Beyond that centerpiece, she traces Circe’s origin as a child of Helios and a nymphly mother, giving texture to the family dynamics that classical fragments only hint at. The book pulls in the story of Scylla — the small sea-nymph who becomes a monster — as well as bits about Daedalus and other mortal craftsmen who visit the island, and even threads from the older cosmic tales about Titans and gods rising to power.

What I loved most is how Miller folds in the aftermath myths too: Circe’s relationship with Odysseus, the birth of Telegonus, and the tragic fallout that follows. It’s not a museum tour of myths; it’s like someone opened the attic of legend and let you rummage through the broken, beautiful pieces with a flashlight and a cup of tea. I walked away wanting to reread 'The Odyssey' and then curl up with any translation of 'Metamorphoses' I could find.

On a rainy afternoon I found myself bookmarking whole passages because 'Circe' does something clever: it retells scattered myths and stitches them into a continuous, modern-feeling life. Miller pulls primarily from 'The Odyssey' — the famous scene where a witch turns men into beasts — and gives Circe a voice that explains why she acts the way she does. But she doesn’t stop there.

Miller integrates material that readers often encounter in 'Theogony' and 'Metamorphoses': origin myths of gods and Titans, tales of transformation (Scylla’s metamorphosis is a big one), and the lateral myths about mortals like Daedalus who intersect with divine lives. The novel also unpacks the later pastoral/tragic elements about Odysseus’s family — including Telegonus — and reframes them through themes of motherhood, exile, and agency.

What makes this retelling modern is less the plot changes and more the perspective: ancient actions are reframed with attention to consent, power imbalance, and emotional consequence. If you like myth with psychological depth, this version reads like an intimate retranslation of several classic sources.

As a person who likes to chew on themes more than plot, I devoured 'Circe' because it reworks several classical tales into a single coherent life. Miller retells the familiar Homeric episode where Circe enchants sailors — that’s the hook — but then she broadens the scope. We get Circe’s origin story as Helios’s daughter, and Miller layers in the Titan-era politics and family grudges that explain why gods behave so cruelly.

The novel also borrows from later myths: the transformation of Scylla (into the multi-headed sea horror), the visits of mortal inventors and craftsmen like Daedalus, and the tangled domestic tragedies that lead to Telegonus’s fateful encounter with Odysseus. There are echoes of Medea-type sorcery and of stories collected in 'Theogony' and 'Metamorphoses' — not as citations but as sources Miller reshapes to center a woman who was sidelined in the originals.

So for modern readers, the book retells myths about transformation, exile, love, motherhood, and revenge, all filtered through Circe’s interior life. It’s feminist without being didactic and makes ancient cruelty and wonder feel intimately human.

I never expected to feel so protective of a mythological figure, but 'Circe' pulled a surprising number of classical threads into a single, personal narrative. At its heart it retells the Homeric incident from 'The Odyssey' — the enchantment of Odysseus’s crew — while also expanding on Circe’s origins as the sun god Helios’s daughter and her punishment/exile to the island of Aiaia.

Miller weaves in other familiar myths too: the transformation of Scylla, the tragic arrival of Telegonus (Circe’s son with Odysseus) who later plays a crucial role in the fallout, and cameo-like appearances by figures such as Daedalus and other mortals who cross Circe’s path. It’s like hearing several old tales told around a single hearth, but this time the hearth finally gets to speak for itself.