Circe

by Madeline Miller

there was no wound she could give me that I had not already given myself.

even the best iron grows brittle with too much beating.

Odysseus, son of Laertes, the great traveller, prince of wiles and tricks and a thousand ways. He showed me his scars, and in return he let me pretend that I had none.

‘I asked her how she did it once, how she understood the world so clearly. She told me that it was a matter of keeping very still and showing no emotions, leaving room for others to reveal themselves. She tried to practise with me, but I made her laugh. “You are as secret as a bull hiding on a beach!” she said.’

Outside, the seasons had turned. The sky opened its hands, and the earth swelled to meet it.

‘You have always been the worst of my children,’ he said. ‘Be sure you do not dishonour me.’ ‘I have a better idea. I will do as I please, and when you count your children, leave me out.’