Aristos Achaion

• Hello and welcome! I know I haven’t been consistent here and deserve many punches to my sternum for it. But today has been one of those days when you are full of blinding rage for no good reason (or multiple reasons). One of the reasons was someone dissing The Song of Achilles, which in my opinion, is a gem of a book. The worst part of it was that their opinion was completely unsolicited and I was just expressing a personal truth. Anyway, whether my rage was fair or unfair is TBD, but it did motivate me to post this very small letter of love for this book that made me sob like a child, but still felt like a warm hug in winters.

• All the art is from Pinterest, Due credit to all the artists, this gorgeous book has gorgeous art.

Artist: j a y

Figs. Lyre. Green eyes flecked with gold. Lips, slant in mischief. Vengeful and petty, the gods. Cold and distant as creatures under water. For the powerful, there are only victories, never the field of battle. The tang of blood, the clash of skins, the clatter of bones beneath still-taut muscles, the wails and cries, torsos separated from limbs—the remnants of war return as nightmares for those capable of dreams. And fear. Stories are told only because there are people fighting the wars. People, moved by love, people who care more about those on the battlefield than those on the thrones.

Artist: vamppilled

I read The Song of Achilles in deep anguish. I knew for the first time, the shape and form of the gods who pull the Earth by her strings. Not benevolent, merciful, just, or kind. But driven by bloodlust, corruption, vanity, and wrath. Greek gods help explain the state of our mortal world. This was not the cause of my anguish, however. This merely made me indignant, livid. I was anguished, lying awake in bed, sobbing in my living room, because of love. Love that is as primal for the living, as revenge is for the immortals. Devotion, raw and pure, that I did not flinch away from. I desired to love someone the way Patroclus loved Achilles. As simple as the breath you inhale, as complex as a game of chess. The love that feels like an ache in your bones, a purpled bruise on your skin that is sweet to touch. Escape, and danger, and hope all at once. I felt as though my heart had been torn from my chest and laid out to be stomped on. When I am crossing the road, watching a film, reading a book, or having a coffee, in quiet unassuming moments, Patroclus comes back to me still. I am filled with a renewed ache for his loneliness, his devotion, his innocence, his wanting heart—holding a mirror to mine. Aristos Achaion, they called Achilles. His destiny, which may well also be his doom. Patroclus dies not for him, Achilles would never need him to, but for the sake of his memory. When we remember Achilles, we think of raging chariots, drawn swords, masked armours. Patroclus remembers the best of him. Figs. Lyre. Green eyes flecked with gold. Lips, slant in mischief. Face like the Sun.

Artist: Blake

I knew going into the book, as would anyone even the slightest bit familiar with Greek Mythology, that they both die in the end. I had also expected, owing to disclaimers from friends, to be devastated. What I did not expect was to find Shakespeare: Journeys end in lovers meeting. And this, was to be my final undoing.