Quotes from Madeline Miller

Pourtant, certains disent que les amoureux sont fous.

The death I had put into his hand.

His voice then was like a balm upon my raw skin. I yearned for his hands, for all of him, mortal though he was, distant and dying though he would always be.

which he ate, the dark flesh parting to pink seeds under his teeth. The fruit was perfectly ripe, the juice brimming.

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. 'Patroclus,' he said. He was always better with words than I.

All my life, I have been moving forward, and now I am here. I have a mortal's voice, let me have the rest.

I've found that courage is not a matter of age, but true made spirits.

I found his hair between my fingers.

Es esto lo que voy a echar de menos. Me mataré antes que perderlo», pensé, y luego me pregunté: «¿Cuánto tiempo tenemos?».

C'est étrange de penser qu'une déesse puisse avoir besoin d'amis. - Toutes les créatures qui ne sont pas folles en ont besoin.

I felt like my eyes were throwing off sparks. I wanted him burnt.

Circe, he says, it will be alright. [...] and somehow, I am comforted. He does not mean that it does not hurt. He does not mean that we are not frightened. Only that: we are here. This is what it means to swim in the tide, to walk the earth and feel it touch your feet. This is what it means to be alive.

At least, I told myself, it was not their brothers, who would have bragged and fought and hunted down my wolves. But of course that was nevera. real danger. Sons were not punished.

Are you always so suspicious?' 'What can I say?' He held out his palms. 'The world is an ugly place. We must live in it.

Motherhood seemed easy to me, before I had a child.

I'm always this color," I said. "Because I used to be made of stone.

Il ressemblait à un orage d'été, dont la foudre illumine le ciel pâle. En sa présence, tout le reste s'estompait.

His voice was remote, almost careless. "You would not be displeased, I think. With how you look now." -- Achilles to Patroclus

Do you want to be a god?" It was easier this time. "Not yet," he said. A tightness I had not known was there eased a little. I would not lose him yet.

Odysseus found the original trouble-causing soldier—Thersites, his name was—and had him beaten quietly into unconsciousness. That was the end of mutinies at Troy.

Then the boy appeared. His name was Clysonymus, and he was the son of a nobleman who was often at the palace. Older, larger, and unpleasantly fleshy.

It was fated long ago, fated a hundred different ways.

What will you tell them?' 'I will tell them nothing.' The answer came with no hesitation, clear and crisp. 'It is not for them to say what I will do.

We had been silent. We were fourteen, and these things were too hard for us. Now that we are twenty-seven, they still feel too hard.