The Song of Achilles

by Madeline Miller

There was a vividness to him, even at rest, that made death and spirits seem foolish.

He said what he meant; he was puzzled if you did not. Some people might have mistaken this for simplicity. But is it not a sort of genius to cut always to the heart?

“There is no law that gods must be fair, Achilles,” Chiron said. “And perhaps it is the greater grief, after all, to be left on earth when another is gone. Do you think?” “Perhaps,” Achilles admitted. I listened and did not speak. Achilles’ eyes were bright in the firelight, his face drawn sharply by the flickering shadows. I would know it in dark or disguise, I told myself. I would know it even in madness.

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.

“Patroclus. I have given enough to them. I will not give them this.”

You can use a spear as a walking stick, but that will not change its nature.”

“I have no need to forgive you. You cannot offend me.”

“I could not make him a god,” she says. Her jagged voice, rich with grief. But you made him.

THROWING UP