As a lover of Greek myths, The Song of Achilles is the ultimate indulgence. Miller stretches out the dense Homeric verse of old heroes and of their killing fame, and molds it into beautiful prose of delicacy; the legend’s fragility unsung by wandering bards. We know the story, how it ends: recruited by Greek kingdoms at the brink of manhood, to fulfill oath and prophecy, then ten years spent warring in Troy. But this is the song of Achilles by his lover, Patroclus – and of his tender memories of Achilles and how they came to fulfill their destinies: one as an awesome warrior, and the other a man worth loving. The novel lingers on past the last page, as all myths and great loves do.
The trojan war bore many legendary heroes, and the novel is generous in their mentioning. But it is the female characters to whom Miller breathes new life into, as mighty Zeus once did to man. Through the women in the novel, Miller showcases varying degrees of our ego, taking us from the ‘I’ we learn as babes, and the “we” we learn as lovers: Patroclus’s mother is innocent and withdrawn from the world, Achilles’ nymph mother as tempestuous and merciless as the seadom she gods, Achilles’s wife is lustful, jealous, then Briseis, their Trojan spoil, is compassionate, selfless; love personified. It is only when our ego is rid of our hubris, and when we act on love in spite of the cost to our glory and fame, that we are bestowed the highest of accolades- as someone worth loving.
Will read Miller’s Circe when it arrives from the bookstore! Thank you, Jamie@BooksActually, for the wonderful recommendation.
“The god is old, old as the first melting of ice from the mountains, and he is wily. He has known every fight that was ever fought on these plains, and there is nothing new to him. Achilles begins to slow, worn out from the strain of holding back the god’s strength with only a thin edge of metal. Chips of wood fly as the weapons meet, but the staff is thick as one of Scamander’s legs; there is no hope that it will break. The god has begun to smile at how often now the man seeks to duck rather than meet his blows. Inexorably, he bears down. Achilles’ face is contorted with effort and focus. He is fighting at the edge of his power. He is not, after all, a god.”
“ Her mouth tightens. ‘Have you no more memories?’
I am made of memories
‘Speak, then.’ ”
JohannaAirth 