Patroclus Quotes in The Silence of the Girls
I’d been kind to Ismene—or I thought I had, but perhaps no kindness was possible between owner and slave, only varying degrees of brutality? I looked across the room at Ismene and thought: Yes, you’re right. My turn now.
“Because I know what it’s like to lose everything and be handed to Achilles as a toy.”
His honesty winded me. But at the same time I was thinking: How can you know? You, with all your privileges, all your power, how could you possibly know what it’s like to be me?
This isn’t about you.
It would have been easier, in many ways, to slip into thinking we were all in this together, equally imprisoned on this narrow strip of land between the sand dunes and the sea; easier, but false. They were men, and free. I was a woman, and a slave. And that’s a chasm no amount of sentimental chit-chat about shared imprisonment should be allowed to obscure.
“I might just get his knife in my guts.”
Nestor smiled. “Not you.”
“You’re sure about that, are you? I wish I was. But, then, I know what it’s like to kill a friend and spend the rest of your life regretting it.”
The defeated go down in history and disappear, and their stories die with them.
Some of the younger women had since had children by their Greek owners, and I’m sure they loved those children too—as women do—but when I spoke to them, it was the Trojan children they remembered, the boys who’d died fighting to save Troy.
He looked hollow, I thought. All that killing, all that revenge . . . Perhaps he’d managed to convince himself that if he did all that—killed Hector, defeated the Trojan army, broke Priam—Patroclus would keep his side of the bargain and stop being dead. We all try to make crazy deals with the gods, often without really knowing we’re doing it.
I’ve said Achilles awarded prizes—oh, and what prizes they were! Nothing was too much for him to give in memory of Patroclus: armour, tripods, horses, dogs, women . . . Iphis. He made her first prize in the chariot race.
He’s in control of everything he sees.
But every morning, he’s compelled to drive his chariot round and round Patroclus’ grave, to defile Hector’s body, and, in the process—as he understands perfectly well—to dishonour himself. And he has no idea how to make any of it stop.
“You won’t do it.”
“He’s a guest.”
“Not invited.”
“No, but accepted.”
We need a new song.
Patroclus Quotes in The Silence of the Girls
I’d been kind to Ismene—or I thought I had, but perhaps no kindness was possible between owner and slave, only varying degrees of brutality? I looked across the room at Ismene and thought: Yes, you’re right. My turn now.
“Because I know what it’s like to lose everything and be handed to Achilles as a toy.”
His honesty winded me. But at the same time I was thinking: How can you know? You, with all your privileges, all your power, how could you possibly know what it’s like to be me?
This isn’t about you.
It would have been easier, in many ways, to slip into thinking we were all in this together, equally imprisoned on this narrow strip of land between the sand dunes and the sea; easier, but false. They were men, and free. I was a woman, and a slave. And that’s a chasm no amount of sentimental chit-chat about shared imprisonment should be allowed to obscure.
“I might just get his knife in my guts.”
Nestor smiled. “Not you.”
“You’re sure about that, are you? I wish I was. But, then, I know what it’s like to kill a friend and spend the rest of your life regretting it.”
The defeated go down in history and disappear, and their stories die with them.
Some of the younger women had since had children by their Greek owners, and I’m sure they loved those children too—as women do—but when I spoke to them, it was the Trojan children they remembered, the boys who’d died fighting to save Troy.
He looked hollow, I thought. All that killing, all that revenge . . . Perhaps he’d managed to convince himself that if he did all that—killed Hector, defeated the Trojan army, broke Priam—Patroclus would keep his side of the bargain and stop being dead. We all try to make crazy deals with the gods, often without really knowing we’re doing it.
I’ve said Achilles awarded prizes—oh, and what prizes they were! Nothing was too much for him to give in memory of Patroclus: armour, tripods, horses, dogs, women . . . Iphis. He made her first prize in the chariot race.
He’s in control of everything he sees.
But every morning, he’s compelled to drive his chariot round and round Patroclus’ grave, to defile Hector’s body, and, in the process—as he understands perfectly well—to dishonour himself. And he has no idea how to make any of it stop.
“You won’t do it.”
“He’s a guest.”
“Not invited.”
“No, but accepted.”
We need a new song.