I first picked up The Iliad because the cloth-bound red cover, stamped with gold flames, was simply gorgeous. So much for not judging a book by its cover. The Penguin Classics edition sat on my shelf for months before I finally opened it. For years, the text had felt inaccessible, surrounded by a kind of academic gate-keeping that suggested it belonged more to specialists than to ordinary readers.
What I discovered, reading Peter Jones’s 2003 revision of E.V. Rieu’s translation, was something entirely different. The Iliad felt less like a distant monument and more like an experience uncannily close to the way we consume content today.
This is not an argument about how The Iliad was originally composed or performed. It is about what it feels like to read it now, as a modern reader shaped by the rhythms of TikTok videos, YouTube Shorts and Instagram Reels. Read this way, the poem resembles an infinite scroll, a relentless sequence of high-intensity scenes, each vivid, self-contained and quickly replaced by the next.
Much of The Iliad does not unfold as a smooth, continuous narrative. Instead, it advances through a succession of micro-episodes. Around 5,500 of its roughly 15,000 lines are devoted to battle scenes, amounting to some 300 warrior encounters. In a typical sequence, a warrior, Greek or Trojan, enters the battlefield, delivers a blow, either kills his opponent or is killed, only for another to take his place.
The pattern repeats consistently throughout the poem. The sustained psychological development, or even the outcome of the battle isn’t what’s important, but the immediate impact of each moment. In phrasing that is highly repetitive, the spears either hit or miss: “his spear did not leave his hand for nothing” or “leaves the hand for nothing”.
This article is part of Rethinking the Classics. The stories in this series offer insightful new ways to think about and interpret classic books and artworks. This is the canon – with a twist.
What ultimately sustains this rhythm is the similes. There are more than 300 in The Iliad and they transform even the most mundane actions into moments of heightened intensity. Consider an action as simple as Achilles arming for battle and picking up his shield:
Then he took up the great, heavy shield, whose brightness flashed into the distance like the moon’s. Like the gleam that sailors catch at sea from a fire burning on a lonely upland farm, when the winds drive them unwillingly from home over the teeming seas, such was the gleam that went up into the sky from Achilles’ ornamental shield.
Achilles’ action itself is simple. The simile expands it, slows it and transforms it into something immersive. It does not rush us into the following scene but tells us how to intensely experience what is happening.
For a modern reader, these similes function almost like the audio and editing layer in short-form video. Think of the typical short vertical videos that appear one after the other as you scroll through your social media feed.
Take a fan edit from the TV show Peaky Blinders, for example. The protagonist Thomas Shelby places his cap on his head and lights a cigarette. The movement slows. The image freezes into a high-contrast still. It flickers into black and white for a beat, then snaps back into motion. The edit lingers a fraction longer than expected. All the while, The Arctic Monkeys song Do I Wanna Know? plays in the background. The gesture itself is simple, but the layering of sound and visual effects makes it feel charged, larger than it is.
Homer’s similes do something comparable. The action itself takes only a moment. The simile expands it, slows it, gives it weight. It does not tell us what happens next, but how to dwell in what has just happened. Then, just as quickly, the poem returns to the rush of battle.
Each scene, then, becomes an affective unit, a self contained segment organised around a dominant emotion. Rage, humiliation, triumph and grief follow one another in rapid succession. When Achilles returns to battle, the violence escalates sharply. When Hector dies, the tone shifts into grief. Yet even these larger moments are embedded within a broader rhythm of constant turnover.
The poem sustains engagement through a sequence of emotional intensities rather than through a single, steadily developing storyline.
Why translation matters
The translation reinforces this effect. Peter Jones’ translation is notable for its bluntness. Gods and mortals alike speak in direct, sometimes shockingly modern terms.
Zeus, disgruntled at Hera’s inclination to support the Greeks over the Trojans, tells her: “No one is more of a bitch than you are.”
Helen, feeling guilty because of the destruction of war that happened because of her, says: “What a cold, evil-minded slut I am!” These lines carry a force that feels unmistakably contemporary. They function almost like the shock beats of short-form video, moments designed to seize attention before the narrative moves on.
These insults are not buffered by politeness or distance. They feel immediate and sometimes uncomfortable. Because they appear within scenes that move quickly and relentlessly, they act as emotional spikes, intensifying the rhythm of impact and reset that structures the poem.
The comparison between The Iliad and modern short-form video content shows that the patterns we associate with contemporary media, like fragmentation, rapid turnover and the constant demand for attention, are not entirely new. They reflect something more fundamental about how humans process narrative and emotion.
While The Iliad remains one of the most foundational works of western literature, shaping mythology, culture and education for centuries, it need not be reduced to a museum piece, admired at a distance simply because of that status. It can and must also be read as a book of the present, one that moves with our habits of attention rather than standing outside them.
Beyond the canon
As part of the Rethinking the Classics series, we’re asking our experts to recommend a book or artwork that tackles similar themes to the canonical work in question, but isn’t (yet) considered a classic itself. Here is Harsh Trivedi’s suggestion:
I would recommend Quand Vient la Horde by Aurélie Luong. Set in an imagined medieval Korea that has become a Russian colony, the novel follows Ivan, an idealistic peasant abducted by the feared White Horde, a band of mercenaries led by the enigmatic Putain Blanche.
Like the Iliad, it is an absolute page-turner, full of twists, reversals and startling transformations. Homer’s characters are often reshaped by divine intervention, as gods guide, deceive or strengthen them. Luong’s characters are likewise altered by violence, revenge and societal forces larger than themselves. Both works unfold in imagined versions of the past, where war exposes the instability of identity and loyalty.
Dark fantasy at its very best, Quand Vient la Horde deserves a much wider readership beyond the Francophone world. If any translators from French into English are reading this, consider this a not-so-subtle hint. And if Aurélie Luong is reading this, I’d be happy to volunteer…
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Harsh Trivedi does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.