From Colorado College's 1914 yearbook.

"Mysterious River Styx: Indiana stream of blind fish disappears three times."  From The Duluth Herald, 1904.

From our review of Hades Speaks! A Guide To the Underworld By the Greek God of the Dead, by Vicky Alvear Shecter and illustrated by J. E. Larson, in which we hail the illustrations for bringing the underworld to life (as it were).

From Indiana University's 1914 yearbook.

From our review of Hades Speaks! A Guide To the Underworld By the Greek God of the Dead, by Vicky Alvear Shecter and illustrated by J. E. Larson, in which we hail the illustrations for bringing the underworld to life (as it were).  Though we love that the narrator is bitter and alienated, the anachronisms certainly rub us the wrong way.  We get that the author is striving to appeal to young readers with references to Harry Potter, Percy Jackson, modern sports, and the like, but (having ourselves dedicated years to studying the art of prosaic timelessness) we'd prefer this book (and any, for that matter) be unrooted in time.  A classical tone, ageless -- that's what a guide to the Greek underworld should possess.  Yet the spectacular illustrations make it easier to turn a blind eye to any narrative weaknesses.  Not since Gustave Doré have we seen such an engaging depiction of the other place.

From Wizardry VI: Bane of the Cosmic Forge handbook.

Crossing the River Styx on a Ouija board.  From Cartoons Magazine, 1920.

Such a great title: A House-Boat on the Styx by John Kendrick Bangs, 1895.

Our favorite depiction of Stygian ferryman Charon is in the song "Sirens, No Harbour" by Sweden's Henric de la Cour.  The opening lines reveal that the speaker has entered the netherworld, and though it is not immediately clear, the speaker does not yet realize that he is dead:

I heard my name

on the wind.

And here we're introduced to Charon, who is the epitome of friendliness:

Please come aboard 

my humble vessel.

I will take you across

this troubled sea.

But it's Charon's safety spiel that we most appreciate, like an airline's "In the event of a water landing" instructions.  He is gently, indirectly suggesting that something will happen to his passenger, to help his passenger come to terms with having expired:

If something should happen,

if the sea should claim you,

please give my regards

to the fish of the deep.

If you get lonesome

in the abyss,

close your eyes;

part your lips.