Circe

by Madeline Miller

That is one thing gods and mortals share. When we are young, we think ourselves the first to have each feeling in the world.

No, I thought. I was not careful. I was reckless, headlong. He was another knife, I could feel it. A different sort, but a knife still. I did not care. I thought: give me the blade. Some things are worth spilling blood for.

Humbling women seems to me a chief pastime of poets. As if there can be no story unless we crawl and weep.

Now I saw more clearly: all those nights in my bed had been only his traveler’s wisdom. When you are in Egypt, you worship Isis; when in Anatolia, you kill a lamb for Cybele. It does not trespass on your Athena still at home.