The Song of Achilles

Madeline Miller’s second book, Circe, is a book I really liked. I blew through it in a single day, because it was one of those books I just could not put down. I liked the ethereal, aloof, otherworldly character of Circe, whom I thought was very well-written as a character not-quite-of-this-earth. The whole thing felt strange, foreign, peculiar, which seemed appropriate. In The Song of Achilles, I learn that this is just how Madeline Miller writes her protagonists. And although very appropriate for a half-goddess recluse mystic, it’s less appropriate for an ancient twink. There is some good gay longing in this book, though. From Chapter 5:

“He was like a flame himself. He glittered, drew eyes. There was a glamour to him, even on waking, with his hair tousled and his face still muddied with sleep. Up close, his feet looked almost unearthly: the perfectly formed pads of the toes, the tendons that flickered like lyre strings.”

I have respect for the boldness of spirit and enterprising nature that it takes for a NYT best-selling book about Ancient Greek fan-fiction to give Patroclus from the Illiad a foot fetish. Like Cirice and Lavinia, this is a feminist re-telling of something plucked out of the world of classical antiquity, re-writing Achilles and Patroclus as kind of sympathetic pre-allies for their treatment of Briseis and their burgeoning throuple status. Despite some highlights and some genuinely emotionally charged moments, I generally didn’t like this book. It’s written to be so flighty, so aloof, and so unearthly. It feels too light.