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Things Worth Remembering: Hope That the Road Is a Long One

Constantine Cavafy’s poem ‘Ithaca’ reminds us that life should be about the journey, not the destination.

By Douglas Murray
Originally published in The Free Press (thefp.com)

       I mentioned Constantine Cavafy before, and I would like to return to him once more. Because this poem isn’t just one of Cavafy’s best, it’s one of my personal favorites.
       Once again, I have ended up with the Daniel Mendelsohn translation in my head. Again, as is usual in translation, there isn’t a rhyme scheme to keep you on track, so it is certainly harder to get into your head than some of the other poems I have written about. But it is worth it.
       One of Cavafy’s most haunting poems, “The City,” describes someone who has destroyed their life and who sets out from the metropolis where the ruin happened for another shore, confident that if they can be in a different place, they can start again.
       On that occasion, Cavafy has a final stanza that packs a real kick in the guts. Because there is a type of person—not everyone, but a type—who will find that the city follows them. And though they think they have ruined their life in just one city, it turns out they have ruined it in the world entire. That short poem is a good life lesson, or at least a good life warning.
       But an even greater poem of Cavafy’s is “Ithaca.” This poem gives advice on how to live the opposite version of the life just described. Ithaca is the isle toward which Ulysses sets out in Homer’s Odyssey. The same journey that Tennyson describes in “Ulysses.” You don’t need to know any of this to appreciate Cavafy’s poem, though it helps to make better sense of the things he warns you might find on the journey.
       There is a simplistic interpretation of the poem; that it is essentially just a long way of saying the journey, not the arrival, is what matters.
       If that had been all Cavafy had meant to say, then he would have said it. But Cavafy never spun words pointlessly. Nor is it simply the case that Ithaca is a synonym for death, though again, there seems no harm in anyone reading the poem and taking that as the meaning. What strikes me about the poem is that it suggests a whole attitude toward life. A suitable attitude, in my own view.
       Having first read it 25 years ago, I have had so many occasions when the poem has bubbled up in my mind.
       A few examples.
       Traveling to a Greek island some years ago, the ferry schedule from Athens showed that we could get to the island we were heading to only on one of those ferries that stops at half a dozen islands along the way. Standing at the port in Athens, my initial feeling was irritation at the length of time all this was going to take.
       But one of the ports we pulled into on the way was the island of Hydra. It was one of the most thrilling sights I have ever seen. That cliff of houses tumbling down steeply toward the naturally protected harbor was a highlight of the trip. Cavafy immediately came to my mind, of course, and I felt gratitude where I had previously felt irritation.
       The poem also comes to mind sometimes when I’m in airports, heading to my gate and seeing all the other places listed on the departures board. I often feel an overwhelming desire to go to the wrong gate and get the plane to somewhere else entirely.
       I was recently at an airport where the flight departures board was announcing, among other destinations, flights to Accra and Hyderabad. Both were places I hadn’t been to, and as the announcements came, my desire to go to those gates and get on board became almost overwhelming. I imagine it is like the feeling that swells up in people who have a tendency toward shoplifting.
       In any case, “Ithaca” speaks to the attitude I have found myself taking in life, and one that we all might take about the world we find ourselves in and the time we have. If there is one line in it that stays with me most—and which invariably makes my eyes moisten when I think about it—it is the line rendered here as line two. It is movingly re-incanted at the opening of the second stanza.
       If you cannot remember the whole poem—and it is a tough one to memorize—remember that line at least.

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