Despite being set in Vietnam during the heights of the civil war, Quinn Makenna’s The King of Ithaca is inspired by relatively unexpected subject matter, The Odyssey. It offers a creative retelling of the classic tale. From the very first page, it drew me into a world of jungle heat, bullets and our protagonist, Barrett, a naive young soldier at the start of the book. Much like Leopold Bloom in Joyce’s modernist masterpiece retelling of the same myth, Ulysses, at its heart this book is about one man, Private Barrett, and his long journey home.
The opening scenes do not ease the reader in. We are hurled into Vietnam alongside Barrett, bleeding and terrified, clinging to the hope of dragging his comrade to safety. Makenna’s writing here is unflinching, “The metallic hint of blood mixed with the stench of bowel contents from those unlucky enough to have had their innards exposed.” Barrett himself is captured soon after, and before long the world of Ithaca, New York, believes him gone. Back home, his wife Elle receives the dreaded visit, “Yes, ma’am. His unit lost him after an ambush. Your country thanks you.” But Elle, the novel’s Penelope, refuses to believe in death without a body.
Makenna’s writing style balances brutality with lyricism, moving from the sharp stink of battlefields to the ache of a kitchen where Elle makes a meal for a son who may not ever see his father again. He allows his characters to speak in fragments, to stumble over words, to have different commands of different languages. The effect is a prose style that feels both immediate and unpolished, lyrical without being ornamental. Familiarity with The Odyssey enriches the reading experience but is by no means essential. Liên serves as a clear example of a parallel, echoing Circe in her role as both healer and enchantress figure who offers Barrett refuge while also delaying his return home.
What stands out most is the writer’s ability to weave myth into the fabric of modern storytelling without ever forcing the parallel. The echoes of Homer are there—the long absence, the temptations—but in Joycean fashion they arise naturally from the characters’ circumstances rather than feeling imposed. Makenna’s prose has a cinematic clarity, yet underneath the vivid detail there is always a current of symbolism. It just goes to show the themes of The Odyssey are as timeless as ever.
Makenna also shows a gift for pacing, letting scenes breathe when emotion demands it and cutting quickly when urgency takes over. The shifts between battlefield chaos, dreamlike flashbacks, and the quieter sections of Elle’s perspective life keep the story from getting dull. The language is never static; it adapts to the moment, veering from blunt, soldierly phrases to passages of introspection.
Because the novel is openly modelled on the Odyssey, there are moments when the sense of suspense is lessened, since we already have a strong idea of the broad shape the story will take. At times, too, the prose—though skilfully crafted and beautifully edited—can slip into a register that feels a little plain, as if holding back. Yet these are minor quibbles in a book that is, overall, both educational and deeply engaging. It offers a fascinating way to think about myth in a modern context, shedding light on the Vietnam War while keeping alive the spirit of the original myth.
Overall, The King of Ithaca is a gripping novel not about victory or defeat, but about what remains after both. Clearly having done a great deal of historical research, Makenna writes with a rare compassion, never sparing us the pain of war but always insisting on the futility of it and the enduring worth of the people caught in its crossfires.
Final verdict: This is a powerful Vietnam War story and a creative reimagining of the Odyssey, perfect for a read before the upcoming Christopher Nolan film. A must for fans of Tim O’Brien, Karl Marlantes, Sebastian Faulks, and Madeline Miller.
You can get your copy of The King of Ithaca or read for free on Kindle Unlimited here!
