Skip to main content

The Song of Achilles: Fact or Fable

“He is half my soul, as the poets say”

A New York Times Bestseller and winner of 2012 Orange Prize for Fiction; the debuting novel of Madeline Miller is a warm and tender retelling of Homer’s Iliad filled with a punch of passion, romance, ambition, death and a good dose of drama. Set on the brink of a war that in future will be seen as the biggest event in the Greek mythology, The Song of Achilles is Miller's way of portraying a love so true that amidst all chaos is capable of transcending the soul.

The book is from the perspective of a not so notable character in the Greek mythology, Patroclus; the gentle, brave and empathetic lover, an exiled prince who was banished from his kingdom, how he finds solace in his love for Achilles, a demi-god who fits the mold of a legendary ancient Greek hero, characterized and remembered by his pride, rage and invulnerability.

The plot mainly rotates around the two contrasting heroes who become inseparable as the story progresses towards the Trojan War and the involvement of various other gods and demigods who directly or indirectly affect the course of not just our lead but of the other sub characters too. The main build-up of the story comes from Thetis (Achilles mother, goddess of water) pushing her son to pursue his fate, who was prophesied to either achieve great battles, glory and die young or live an old unremarkable life in shadows. Achilles chose the former and decides to battle in the Trojan war with Patroclus by his side.

“I could recognize him by touch alone, by smell; I would know him blind, by the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth. I would know him in death, at the end of the world.”

                                     

Our thoughts on the book and would we recommend it?

With The Song of Achilles Miller did steal a lot of hearts but she wasn’t untouched by critics who may have judged the novel too harshly on the limits of a genre. They argued that Achilles, who was a solitary perpetrator of genocide was centrally themed to a romance fiction, however therein lies the beauty of it. Others didn’t quite like the idea of portraying Patroclus and Achilles as lover, as the history claims them to be companion or friends. Well, Miller doesn't confine herself solely to the scope of the Iliad, she reads between the lines and crafts the splendid lifelike stories of her characters that beautifully blurs the realms of human and the myth.

She enriches the ambiguities of the Iliad and expresses it through a contemporary lens. She avoids explicitly categorizing "homosexual" in the narrative and yet makes it one of the most intimate and passionate romances of the two legendary heroes.

“That is — your friend?"

"Philtatos," Achilles replied, sharply. Most beloved.” 

 Millers’ poetic and fast paced writing make it a very enjoyable and an easy read ideal for anyone willing to dive into the depths of Greek mythology with a solid romantic narration to the same. It is well-suited for readers who enjoy such character-driven narratives. However, it's worth noting that the novel contains mature themes and brief depictions of violence, so readers discretion is advised. The book is also recommended to the young adult readers as it provides a fresh and modern take on Homer's 'Iliad.'

Also recommended to the LGBTQ+ communities as the novel beautifully describes a mature relationship between the legendary heroes who dominated one of the longest and finest battles of the Greek mythology.


Final Thoughts

The Song of Achilles is a very wholesome read, an emotional roller-coaster that takes you to the heights of pure admiration and pushes you down the depths of agonizing separation. The book might just become a gateway for you to explore a whole new realm of mythological retellings like Circe again by Miller or Ariadne by Jennifer Saint.

PS: What a normal conversation in Patrochilles universe looks like:

 "Name one hero who was happy."

"You can't."

"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."


**Read the novel to find out did Achilles keep his promise. Was he really happy in the end?**

 

 Connect with the reviewers:
SAUMYA SHARMA (saumya.sharma0915@gmail.com) 
GARGI JUGRAN (jugrangargi@gmail.com) 

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

The Fear of the Blank Page

The page stares back at me, white and wide. Unforgiving. It looks like peace until you try to write on it - then the silence is too loud to bear. I hover my pen above it, waiting for the first word to flow out like a miracle, something tries to stop me. The page says, “Go on.” I say, “I can’t.” Who’s holding this weight on me? It’s only paper - but it feels heavier than I do .    As I close my notebook a soft voice begins to speak, “ You’re afraid of me, aren’t you? ” I get up and try to walk away, the voice follows. “You come to me when you need to fill me with your impossible dreams, you hide from me when you need the truth.” I open the notebook again, the page waits patiently this time. “I’m trying”, I say. It replies “Then stop trying, start listening.” So I listen. As the pen hovers again, I hear the sound of an untold story trying to stretch its way out. The one that hides between thoughts I never finish saying. The dreams I left half-drawn, quiet truths I never dared t...

Life Bled, Death Whispered, God Watched — Point-Blank

Today was rather cold. It's not uncommon for January mornings to be bone-chilling and windy, but today, I could feel the wind pass through my sweater, hit me point-blank, and extinguish the remnants of heat that my skin and bones radiated. Hitting at point-blank, being hit at point-blank—both are mutually exclusive events, but there's a contradiction; both are cohesive too. When a bullet leaves a gun and pierces the flesh of a living entity, it not only splatters the blood of its victim but also ravages the innocence of the perpetrator. When a lion tears the flesh of a dying deer, it not only eats parts of its prey but preys on parts of itself, too. When I am long lost in this smoke, when this nicotine roll burns in my hand, it's not the only thing burning. Death always occurs in pairs, but neither entity ends the same way as the other, and it's rarely instantaneous. It's more of a slow, gruesome, tragic, yet cinematic event. Death is always violent. Sometimes, it a...

approximation errors of life

  I just woke up from a fever dream and it dawned on me that the dream lasted too long and hasn’t been that long since I arrived. Does time move differently in dreams, with different experiences, does it relapse, can it not be stuck in a loop of my favorite childhood memory? I wake up with these questions, and I don’t quite know when is the right time to ask questions and when is the right time to answer them. The timing is important you see, when you choose to change the curve and when you accept the flow, it makes all the difference. Also, pardon my casual language, I just woke up from a fever dream. I think about existentialism and how the originality of human experiences causes self-alienation and how lonely the suffering can be ( yet I never wished any suffering on you ). I’m not a philosopher, educator, or a liberal arts student wandering and wondering about the technicalities of life ( i don’t know who the addressee is ), however, I still believe the originality of human e...

Flesh

It’s a spring day today. It’s summer in the sun and winter in the shade. My body does not know which season to belong to, so it lingers in the in-between, splitting itself apart. Half burning, half frozen. Half alive, half rotting. You understand this, don’t you? That feeling of being suspended between two selves, two states of being, neither of them quite yours. The warmth touches you, but it does not sink in. The cold nips at your skin, but you do not shiver. You are not here, not really. You are only the shadow you cast. Just like you, The enormity of my desires disgusts me. I want to be called beautiful. I want to be told I am loved—not once, not twice, but over and over again, until the words sink through my flesh, until they take root in my bones, until I become something soft, something sacred, something worth keeping. But I am made of spoiled meat, swollen with things that should not be here. I hold too much filth inside me—blackened regrets, sickness curdling beneath my ribs, ...

What Never Poured

 Sometimes I think about those clouds: how they drift, soft and deceptive, pretending to be cotton balls while carrying entire oceans inside them. They look serene from below, even gentle, though their silence is nothing but a storm waiting to come out.  Perhaps that’s what makes it so tragic? Their quiet obedience to a sky that only loves them when they’re harmless. They swallow what the world won’t see, rehearsing to look gentle and to stay soft, masking ache as grace, until they find a sky willing to let them break. They are the lucky ones as their sky listens. So, when they collapse, it isn’t destruction, it’s devotion. The rain falls as a confession, honest and unashamed, and the sky? Well, it receives it without flinching. For a while, there’s no sorrow, no anger in the undoing, only relief. The clouds pour until they are empty, and the world below calls it beautiful, not realising the years of pain it holds.       But what about the ones that ne...

The Silent Takeover

The air tonight is thick, darkness stretching out like a lie too polished, too staged. The city below glows in dim yellow light, but it is a deceptive kind of glow, shuddering like a breath too weak to hold on to. Somewhere, laughter spills from a distant window, but it is hollow, floating into the night like a shadow of what once lived. They say the night is beautiful. That it is a whispered promise, a fleeting touch, a sky too vast to hold. But beauty is often just a mask stretched thin over something ugly. The moon shines down, with a smile that does not reach my hollow heart, basking in radiance that was never truly its own. The stars blink like knowing eyes, but they are nothing but remnants of dead things, whispering from too far for us to listen. But the night does not love you. It does not listen to your secrets; it swallows them whole. It watches, as footsteps echo in deserted alleys, as shadows stretch under flickering streetlights. Somewhere, a deal is sealed with a quiet ha...

GUIDE 101: HOW TO NOT END UP ON THE TAPES.

The HANNAH BAKER way.  Inspired from the book- Thirteen Reasons Why. 
 Has there ever been a person you liked so much but the only thing you could ever do for the sake of Lord is talk to them. Even if it was a simple light-hearted conversation, the best you could do was to drop in a little ‘hello, how are you’.   Why?  Because liking someone means liking their particular trait which  you wish you possessed before. It could be anything - personality, looks, smartness anything that makes them unique in your eyes. And starting a conversation with this cool version of your built-up perspective requires real courage.  We all are always waiting. Waiting for someone to know us, understand us and believe us like no one ever could before. Unfortunately, this turns out to be one difficult task especially in a world where trust comes at a high cost.  Those who do find this ‘trust’ in this world are rare and have fortunately hit the jackpot of fate.
And before you know...