Madeline Miller

The Song of Achilles

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'Captivating' DONNA TARTT
'I loved it' J K ROWLING
'Ravishingly vivid' EMMA DONOGHUE

Greece in the age of heroes. Patroclus, an awkward young prince, has been exiled to the court of King Peleus and his perfect son Achilles. Despite their differences, Achilles befriends the shamed prince, and as they grow into young men skilled in the arts of war and medicine, their bond blossoms into something deeper — despite the displeasure of Achilles's mother Thetis, a cruel sea goddess. But when word comes that Helen of Sparta has been kidnapped, Achilles must go to war in distant Troy and fulfill his destiny. Torn between love and fear for his friend, Patroclus goes with him, little knowing that the years that follow will test everything they hold dear.
'A book I could not put down' ANN PATCHETT
'An exciting, sexy, violent Superman version of The Iliad' GUARDIAN
'Sexy, dangerous, mystical' BETTANY HUGHES
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340 паперових сторінок
Bloomsbury Publishing

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    bpadelmanцитує2 роки тому
    Peleus stood at the shore’s edge, one hand raised in farewell. True to his word, Achilles had not told him of the prophecy, merely hugged him tightly, as if to soak the old man into his skin. I had embraced him too, those thin, wiry limbs. I thought, This is what Achilles will feel like when he is old. And then I remembered: he will never be old.
    destielsangel6цитує2 роки тому
    My father was angry. “Son of Laertes, I do not remember inviting you to speak.”

    The man smiled. “I was not invited. I interrupted.
    hypnagogicwallflowerцитує9 місяців тому
    His eyes opened. “Name one hero who was happy.”

    I considered. Heracles went mad and killed his family; Theseus lost his bride and father; Jason’s children and new wife were murdered by his old; Bellerophon killed the Chimera but was crippled by the fall from Pegasus’ back.

    “You can’t.” He was sitting up now, leaning forward.

    “I can’t.”

    “I know. They never let you be famous and happy.” He lifted an eyebrow. “I’ll tell you a secret.”

    “Tell me.” I loved it when he was like this.

    “I’m going to be the first.” He took my palm and held it to his. “Swear it.”

    “Why me?”

    “Because you’re the reason. Swear it.”

    “I swear it,” I said, lost in the high color of his cheeks, the flame in his eyes.

    “I swear it,” he echoed.

    We sat like that a moment, hands touching. He grinned.

    “I feel like I could eat the world raw.”

    A trumpet blew, somewhere on the slopes beneath us. It was abrupt and ragged, as if sounded in warning. Before I could speak or move, he was on his feet, his dagger out, slapped up from the sheath on his thigh. It was only a hunting knife, but in his hands it would be enough. He stood poised, utterly still, listening with all of his half-god senses.

    I had a knife, too. Quietly, I reached for it and stood. He had placed himself between me and the sound. I did not know if I should go to him, stand beside him with my own weapon lifted. In the end, I did not. It had been a soldier’s trumpet, and battle, as Chiron had so bluntly said, was his gift, not mine.

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