The Hymn to Dionysus by Natasha Pulley is a beautifully written, psychologically astute, and mythologically rich novel that breathes new life into the god of madness, revelry, and revolution. Pulley, known for her mastery of the fantastical and philosophical (The Watchmaker of Filigree Street, The Kingdoms), reimagines ancient myth through a deeply human lens, delivering a tale of trauma, power, queer intimacy, and redemption in a crumbling empire. While the novel’s pacing can feel uneven in parts, the prose and emotional resonance are nothing short of spellbinding.
The Setting: Thebes on the Brink
Pulley constructs an ancient world that straddles the mystical and the militaristic. Thebes, shimmering in holy architecture and marvels (literal divine machines), is more than a backdrop—it’s a character. Whether it’s the bronze sentinel of Herakles bowing its head, the whispering sacred groves of Harper Mountain, or the temples vibrating with divine presence, Thebes is painted as a fragile, gleaming hub where the political, the spiritual, and the personal collide.
We are not in a tidy version of antiquity here. This world has sweat, rot, glory, and grit. It’s a place where madness brews like storm clouds, where gods wear human faces, and where a traumatized soldier might just hold the future of a myth in his shaking hands.
Plot: Of Knights, Gods, and Madness
At its heart, the story belongs to Phaidros, a Theban knight raised in the legions, hardened by combat, and scarred by war—physically and psychologically. From the novel’s stark opening—where he rescues a blue-eyed baby from a palace fire only to be ordered to abandon it—we know we are in Pulley’s terrain: stories told backward, beginnings that are endings, and characters whose traumas are etched into the very texture of their reality.
Years later, Phaidros, haunted by PTSD, becomes a training master. Around him, veterans unravel. Madness spreads like wildfire. When he becomes entangled with a fragile but headstrong Theban prince, the plot pulls him back into the palace’s web of secrets, until he meets the grown, beguiling, and possibly divine Dionysus—the very child he once saved.
From here, Pulley takes us on a journey of slow revelations. The story isn’t driven by twists but by psychological deepening, mythic layering, and an emotional unraveling that mirrors Phaidros’ internal disintegration—and eventual transcendence.
Main Character Analysis: Phaidros, the Wounded Witness
Phaidros is not your average mythic protagonist. He doesn’t seek glory; he seeks meaning. With sardonic wit and profound vulnerability, Phaidros narrates his own descent into—and dance with—madness. His voice, dry and occasionally biting, evokes a man who has seen too much and trusts too little.
He is both a soldier and a mother figure, a protector and a puppet. And through his relationship with Dionysus, Pulley crafts a rare portrait of queer intimacy that is neither tokenistic nor overtly romantic. It is spiritual, strange, and slowly devastating.
What makes Phaidros stand out is that he is an unreliable narrator not because he lies, but because trauma blurs his own truths. His panic attacks, flashbacks, and compulsions don’t just add psychological realism—they become the heartbeat of the novel.
Pulley’s triumph is making us root for a character who, by his own admission, is broken beyond repair—but who, in Dionysus, finds not just healing but divinity.
Dionysus: The God Who Smiles
Unlike other myth retellings (The Song of Achilles, Circe, Elektra), The Hymn to Dionysus doesn’t try to humanize a god—it shows how a god can stay utterly divine and still be viscerally real. Dionysus, as Pulley imagines him, is not a drunk reveler. He is a trickster, a child of trauma, a being who smiles gently as empires burn.
He is wise but feral.
Kind but dangerous.
Infantile and ancient at once.
There is a delicate, eerie joy in the way he appears and disappears from scenes, in how animals follow him, and in how madness blooms in his wake. He is not there to love Phaidros; he is there to unmake and remake him. Through Dionysus, Pulley rewrites the myth not as a tragedy, but as an evolution: of gods, of trauma, of love.
Writing Style: A Straight Line that Spirals
Pulley begins her story with an oath to “start at the beginning,” mocking Homeric tradition. But this is a Natasha Pulley book—nothing stays linear. And that is a strength.
Her writing is:
Wryly humorous (Phaidros’ inner voice is full of dry observations and world-weary commentary),
Lyrical without being ornamental (even in fantastical descriptions, she avoids florid excess),
Psychologically textured (every thought has weight; no feeling is cheapened).
She threads myth, trauma, and politics with a watchmaker’s precision—though at times, that precision slows the pacing. There are chapters that linger, burn slow, and require patience. But the payoff is immense.
Themes: Madness, Memory, and Myth
1. Madness as Metamorphosis
Where most stories treat madness as tragedy, Pulley treats it as transformation. Veterans haunted by violence are not just victims—they are vessels for something larger. Through Phaidros’ trauma, the novel explores how gods may be born from suffering—and how some people must go mad to stay human.
2. Divine Disobedience
Pulley’s Thebes is governed by hierarchy and silence. Those who rebel—Phaidros, Dionysus, the crown prince—are punished, then exalted. The novel reverberates with the idea that disobedience, when driven by love or truth, is the only path to salvation.
3. Queer Longing
Without ever becoming sentimental, The Hymn to Dionysus is a love story between men—not in the romantic sense, but in the mythic one. It’s about loyalty, sacrifice, and recognition. About knowing someone fully—and following them even when the path veers into the divine.
What Works Brilliantly
Deep Psychological Realism – The portrayal of PTSD and the quiet unraveling of the mind is sensitively done, drawing from modern trauma theory while still feeling mythic.
Original Retelling of Dionysus – This isn’t your usual chaotic wine god; Pulley’s Dionysus is magnetic and terrifying in equal measure.
Prose that Feels Incantatory – The writing borrows the musical rhythm of ancient poetry while staying grounded in Phaidros’ dry, sardonic tone.
Powerful Queer Representation – Subtle, meaningful, and central to the narrative.
Genre-Blending Worldbuilding – Pulley blends historical detail with divine machinery and magical realism in a way that feels natural.
Where It Falters Slightly
While “The Hymn to Dionysus” is often brilliant, it’s not without its challenges:
Pacing can drag in the middle third, particularly in moments heavy with political maneuvering or theological musing.
Lack of narrative clarity in parts may leave readers yearning for more momentum or traditional plot progression.
Dionysus, as a character, remains elusive, which is intentional, but may frustrate readers seeking deeper character development or emotional reciprocation.
Still, these critiques are less about failure and more about the cost of ambition. Pulley dares to reimagine a god—and gods don’t fit neatly into plot points.
For Fans Of…
The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller
Orphia and Eurydicius by Elyse John
Psyche and Eros by Luna McNamara
Wrath Goddess Sing by Maya Deane
Pulley’s own The Kingdoms and The Watchmaker of Filigree Street
Final Thoughts: The Madness That Makes Us
The Hymn to Dionysus is a hymn not just to a god, but to transformation itself. Through a trauma-scarred soldier and a laughing, dangerous god, Pulley gives us a story about what it means to lose control—and to find freedom in the fall. It’s not always easy reading, but it’s unforgettable.
Dionysus isn’t here to bless your crops. He’s here to set fire to your certainties. And Pulley lets him.