Jun 10, 2020
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the song of achilles // madeline miller
Who was he if not destined for fame?
I feel like I could eat the world raw.
“When he died, all things soft and beautiful and bright would be buried with him.”
I will never leave him.
It will be this, always, for as long as he will let me.
“The rosy gleam of his lip, the fevered gleam of his eyes. There was not a line anywhere on his face, nothing creased or graying; all crisp. He was spring, golden and bright. Envious death would drink his blood, and grow young again.”
Patroclus, he says, Patroclus. Patroclus.
Over and over until it is sound only.