Full disclosure: I don't completely approve of such questions about literary characters. For instance, in a Jane Austen discussion forum I'm on, there are some people who talk about some of Austen's characters in this way -- is Willoughby a sociopath? How about Frank Churchill? It seems a little silly, and also beside the point.
But still -- the conversations stemming from such questions can be entertaining and educational.
The reason that this one came to my mind is that, in the later chapters of the book, Odysseus is often put on the spot to say who he is and where he comes from. For various reasons (or, sometimes it seems to me, for no reason except that it's his way), he never tells the truth about this.
The thing that struck me is that any ordinary person would have their "cover story" for this kind of situation all set up, and would trot it out when necessary. But Odysseus never does this. He never tells the same "origin story" twice.
And he gets into it! It's never just some "My name is Fredicus and I'm from Fredopolis and my parents are dead." It's really detailed! And *long*!
What gives?
I heard a woman on the radio once who really was a compulsive liar. She sounded absolutely sincere, and I genuinely believe that when she was telling a story, she really believed what she was saying. Then, later, when she was saying something in complete contradiction to what she'd said before, she sounded completely convinced of *that*.
I know Odysseus never forgot who he really was; but he really seems to throw himself into the stories he tells. In ancient Greece, he's "the man of twists and turns"; would we give him a less flattering psychological label here?
Do you think he lies more than is strictly necessary? Could it be for the sheer enjoyment of it, or just habit after living on the defensive for so long? There is, after all, a certain power in lying to someone who believes you implicitly. Especially when, even if they doubted you, they couldn't possibly show any evidence that you were lying. And the Greeks were all about power.
Not that I have read that far in the actual work, but I did read somewhere else that he lied about who he was when he got home. I think it is probably out of fear for what might happen. Maybe to stay in control of the situation he may find himself in. For instance, when he got home, if he had just blurted out "It's me! I'm home! Welcome me!" he may have been killed on the spot by the suitors that were already plotting to kill his son.
Whenever you come into a room and announce who you are, the ball is in the other court how to respond to that. Greeks (in the stories I've read) especially kings, are all about control of a situation. If he were to flat out refuse to answer who he was, he may raise suspicions. If he finds he is in friendly company, he can always reveal the truth at his own discretion.
Besides, after all he has been through he is probably just a little worried about what is going to happen next!
You make a good point (more than one, actually), especially about Odysseus' course of action when he initially returns to Ithaca. He was in real and valid fear of being murdered by the suitors if they learned who he really was; and even if he defended himself, he had to worry about their relations retaliating on their behalf. He had to get all his ducks in a row before he could tell who he was.
Two things about O's behavior intrigue me, though: the elaborate details on his "cover stories" (which differ depending on who he's talking to -- wouldn't he worry that people might compare notes and find out something fishy's going on?); and the fact that he lied to his father about who he was after the suitors were already dead and any retribution in the works was going to happen if it was going to happen, so he didn't have anything more to worry about.
That's true -- the book says something about O's wanting to test his father (or words to that effect), but doesn't say why. At this point, it could almost be reflex on his part. He's been unable to tell the truth about himself for so long that it might now feel strange to do so. But it still seems cruel. His father hasn't so much as slept inside the house in years -- it's as if he can't bear to enjoy the comforts his son might be suffering without. He's out there gardening, for all the world like a common field laborer. His wife has died of grief for their son. Well, okay, maybe that last bit -- does O. think that his father might now be completely embittered toward his son, for all the pain his prolonged absence has caused? Irrational, but then emotions generally are.
