The Song of Achilles

by Madeline Miller

I could recognize him by touch alone, by smell; I would know him blind, by the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth. I would know him in death, at the end of the world.

He is half of my soul, as the poets say.

“Have you no more memories?” I am made of memories.

“Go,” she says. “He waits for you.”