How dare he? How dare they all?”Īgamemnon disrespected him, tore his honour to shreds and tossed it at Achilles’ feet like a filthy rag, and no one lifted a finger to oppose him. He stands there, silent, eyes solemn and forlorn. He can feel nothing beyond it, think nothing, see nothing. He flings them away, then tosses the ewer on the table across the tent - the sound it makes as it shatters against a chair is sickening.Īchilles’ rage is hot, incandescent. The spear snaps in Achilles’ hands in an explosion of wood, the two halves of it now useless. Even while we talk, Time, hateful, runs a mile. Be wise, strain clear the wine, and prune the rambling vine of expectation. How much better to suffer whatever will be, whether Zeus gives us more winters, or whether this is our last, which now weakens the Tyrrhenian sea on the pumice stones opposing it. Leave the Babylonians to parse the sentence of the stars. Don’t ask (we may not know), Leuconoë, what the gods plan for you and me.
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