The Song Of Achilles
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He is half of my soul, as the poets say.
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“I am made of memories.”
Chapter Thirty-Three / Patroclus
“Have you no more memories?”
I am made of memories.
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Chiron had said once that nations were the most foolish of mortal inventions.
In the darkness, two shadows, reaching through the hopeless, heavy dusk. Their hands meet, and light spills in a flood like a hundred golden urns pouring out of the sun.
I will never leave him. It will be this, always, for as long as he will let me.
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He has looked at me a thousand thousand times, but there is something different in this gaze, an intensity I do not know
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“I will never leave him. It will be this, always, for as long as he will let me.
If I had had words to speak such a thing, I would have. But there were none that seemed big enough for it, to hold that swelling truth.
As if he had heard me, he reached for my hand. I did not need to look; his fingers were etched into my memory, slender and petal-veined, strong and quick and never wrong.”
Dear gods, I think, let him not hate me.
Akhilleus gerçekten kastettiği şeyleri söylüyor, karşısındaki öyle yapmazsa da şaşırıyordu. Bazıları bunu budalalıkla karıştırabilir. Oysa her zaman yürekten gelen şeyleri söylemek de bir tür deha değil midir?
Gods were cold and distant, far off as the moon, nothing like his bright eyes, the warm mischief of his smiles.
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