Lamia and Lost Motherhood

with Ana González-Rivas Fernández

Today’s guest is Professor Ana González-Rivas Fernández, senior lecturer in English Studies at the Universidad Autónoma de Madrid, Spain. She holds a PhD in Philology and has degrees in both English and Classics from the Complutense University of Madrid. Her works include “Reconstructing the Myth of Lamia in Modern Fiction: Stories of Motherhood, Miscarriage, and Vengeance.” Today she’s going to tell us more about the Lamia, one of her favorite classical monsters!

There are no clear depictions of Lamia from ancient Greece or Rome. This modern interpretation of her myth includes her serpentine aspect and predilection for preying on children, as Professor González-Rivas Fernández explains below.

How did you first get interested in studying ancient monsters?

My interest in the monsters of classical mythology dates back to my pre-doctoral student years. My doctoral thesis focused on the reception of Greco-Roman classics in Gothic literature written in English, which required an in-depth knowledge of both the key works of horror literature and the Greek and Latin texts dealing with similar themes. It was then that I began to delve into the main narratives of the supernatural in the classical world and, of course, into various myths about monsters and the monstrous. The reception of the classics in horror literature remains one of my main lines of research, and classical mythology appears frequently in this genre, from its origins in the late eighteenth century to the present day, so these monsters have become a regular feature of my studies.

One of your favorite monsters from ancient Greece and Rome is Lamia. What aspects of Lamia caught your attention?

Among the different monster myths I have had the chance to analyze, I have been particularly interested in that of Lamia, the Libyan queen who was Zeus’s lover and was condemned by Hera to lose all her children. Consumed by rage and grief, Lamia ultimately becomes a monster who, envious of the fate of other mothers, goes out at night to devour other people’s children.

One of the aspects that fascinates me most about this myth is the personal drama underlying it, for it is a revealing example of how the traumatic ultimately turns into the monstrous. Lamia is a victim before she becomes an executioner: a victim of Zeus, to whom she owes obedience, and a victim of Hera, who blames her for her husband’s infidelity. Lamia’s monstrosity stems from a searing pain: the loss of her children. In this sense, the myth also clearly reflects the close connection between the internal and the external monstrous, between trauma and physical transformation. Furthermore, the myth of Lamia links the uncanny and the monstrous with the world of childhood, a combination that is particularly appealing and productive in contemporary horror fiction.

Above: 1607 woodcut of the mythical Lamia, depicting her with the head and breasts of a woman and the scaly body of a serpent, but also claws and cloven hooves! As Professor González-Rivas Fernández explains below, ancient authors provided very little information about the Lamia’s physical appearance, leaving later authors and artists to their own devices.

Little can be said regarding Lamia’s physical appearance, that is, her external monstrosity. The myth of Lamia is transmitted mainly through secondary and fragmentary sources that provide very few details, and iconographic representations are not only scarce but highly questionable (in terms of whether they really represent Lamia or some other creature). Because of its possible connection with other tales, she is sometimes attributed a serpentine appearance, although it is difficult to find sources that confirm this. Nevertheless, I believe that it is precisely this lack of information that explains the interest it has sparked in the past and continues to arouse today: each reader can construct Lamia’s image according to their own concept of what is “monstrous,” and each writer can appropriate the myth from this same subjective standpoint. Far from being an obstacle, the absence of detail fosters the universality of the myth and makes it particularly well suited to new retellings.

Mythical monsters often represent cultural concerns. What fears or anxieties might the tragic and monstrous figure of Lamia be expressing?

As the first-century BCE Greek author Strabo points out, in antiquity the myth of Lamia served a social function: Mothers and nurses would threaten children with Lamia’s arrival if they misbehaved. In this sense, Lamia works in a similar way to the “bogeyman” or the “Sack Man” (El Hombre del Saco) figures found in many cultures. The myth, moreover, warns mothers about the dangers that may lurk for their children. Finally, it serves as a reminder of the trauma Lamia suffers from the loss of her own children— a lacerating pain that stirs compassion in anyone. Ultimately, Lamia’s story employs the universal language of myth to evoke shared fears with which we can all identify, regardless of our social or cultural background. It is easy to empathize with Lamia, but also to fear her.

Are there any modern adaptations of Lamia that you find particularly interesting and useful?

In terms of reception, the myth of Lamia cannot be compared to others, such as those of the Cyclops from the Odyssey or Medusa from the Perseus story . Nevertheless, thanks to its narrative development, it has been particularly prolific in the horror genre, as I have had the opportunity to demonstrate in several articles (such as the one linked above). As I point out in them, Lamia’s narrative pattern can be perceived in a wide range of works, including novels (The Woman in Black by Susan Hill, 1983), films (The Hand that Rocks the Cradle, dir. Curtis Hanson, 1992; Mama, dir. Andrés Muschietti, 2013; Inside (À l’intérieur), dir. Julien Maury and Alexandre Bustillo, 2007), graphic novels (Lamia by Rayco Pulido, 2016) and short stories (“Lamia” by Cristina Jurado, 2022). Moreover, it fuses with myths from other cultures, such as that of La Llorona, which also converges with the myth of Medea. At times, as in The Woman in Black, we find a character who closely resembles the mythological figure and who, like her, is driven by a desire for vengeance that she unleashes upon innocent victims. At other times, as in the film Mama or in the Pulido’s Lamia, Lamia’s bloodthirsty behavior reflects a desperate attempt to reclaim her lost motherhood. In these versions, Lamia’s envy is reformulated, laying bare the frustration of a woman who refuses to accept her misfortune.

Below: Cover and first page of Rayco Pulido’s graphic novel Lamia.

What do you think accounts for the ongoing appeal of ancient monsters in the modern world?

The interest in the monsters of classical mythology can be explained in much the same way as the fascination we feel for the horror genre. The monster confronts us with our fears, with our shadow, with a part of reality we wish to hide or ignore, yet which remains latent. In this sense, horror proves to be an excellent tool for self-knowledge, for it exposes our most vulnerable points—both as individuals and as a society. It takes us straight into the unknown, which, as many writers in the nineteenth century already intuited, dwells within us.

The monster embodies the abject, the grotesque and, ultimately, everything that disrupts harmony and destabilizes us. But at the same time, we recognize it as part of ourselves: the monster is our doppelgänger. And this largely explains why we continue to create new narratives for ancient monsters: we want to understand the causes of their monstrosity, to reconcile with them, to forgive them, to forgive ourselves. The Minotaur is no longer so terrifying since Jorge Luis Borges provided him with voice and thought in “The House of Asterion.” And this is also reflected in the reception of classical monsters in postmodernity, a period in which we understand that the monstrous also contributes to the construction of identity.