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Kindle Notes & Highlights
Think: it’s not that beauty, Helen, you should hate, not even Paris, the man that you should blame, no, it’s the gods, the ruthless gods who are tearing down the wealth of Troy, her toppling crown of towers.
His looks, his words, they pierce her heart and cling— no peace, no rest for her body, love will give her none.
The region next to them is held by those sad ghosts, innocents all, who brought on death by their own hands; despising the light, they threw their lives away. How they would yearn, now, in the world above to endure grim want and long hard labor!
“do the gods light this fire in our hearts 220 or does each man’s mad desire become his god?
But of course—so Turnus can fetch his royal bride— our lives are cheap, scattered in piles across the field, unburied and unwept.
Well, the day has come when a woman’s weapons prove your daydreams wrong! Still, you carry no mean fame to your fathers’ shades— just tell them this: You died by Camilla’s spear!”
ugh girlboss love that for her
When, soon, they join in their happy wedding-bonds— and wedded let them be—in pacts of peace at last, never command the Latins, here on native soil, to exchange their age-old name, to become Trojans, called the kin of Teucer, alter their language, change their style of dress. Let Latium endure.
