An Oresteia: Agamemnon by Aiskhylos; Elektra by Sophokles; Orestes by Euripides

by Anne Carson

I could tell you stories of winter so cold it killed the birds in the air. Or summer heat when the sea at noon lay without a crease— but why bewail this? Our toil is past. Over. The dead do not care to rise again. Why should I count them? Why pick at old wounds? Goodbye grief!

Do I not live? Badly, I know, but I live.

“That’s no way to talk to your mother!” Strange. I don’t think of you as mother at all. You are some sort of punishment cage locked around my life.

Oh my love take me there. Let me dwell where you are. I am already nothing. I am already burning. Oh my love, I was once part of you—take me too! Only void is between us. And I see that the dead feel no pain.

Nights and tears and groaning, nothing else is mine. No marriage, no house, no children, just time.

But if you give me comfort when I get hopeless I’ll do the same for you.

If you fall sick too we’re truly lost. All we have is us.

Even imaginary demons can drive you to despair.

Impossible situations are where we need friends. If I had god on my side I’d be self-sufficient!

Oh but look, here comes Pylades, my dearest friend, a sight as sweet as calm water to sailors.

What’s going on? How are you faring—dearest, sweetest, best of friends—you know you are all these to me.

ORESTES : The ghastly goddesses—they’ll send my wits astray. PYLADES : I’ll take care of you. ORESTES : It’s rotten work. PYLADES : Not to me. Not if it’s you.

And what would I have to say for myself in later life if I stopped being your friend the minute you got into trouble? No. We’re going to die together,