and when he moved it was like watching oil spread across a lake, smooth and fluid, almost vicious

It was almost like fear, in the way it filled me, rising in my chest. It was almost like tears, in how swiftly it came. But it was neither of those, buoyant where they were heavy, bright were they dull.

. . .nothing could eclipse the stain of his dirty, mortal mediocrity.

We were like gods at the dawning of the world, & our joy was so bright we could see nothing else but the other.

A part of what makes myths live is their multiplicity, the way different voices retell them in every generation. Homer survives because his poetry was outstanding, yes, but also because he's been passed down by so many by luminaries like Vergil and Ovid, Shakespeare, James Joyce and Margaret Atwood, but also by countless others. I wanted to do my part for these tremendous stories.

People are people, whatever age they're living in. The circumstances may have changed - we go to war with planes instead of chariots - but experiences of grief, longing, rage and love remain the same.

He is a weapon, a killer. Do not forget it. You can use a spear as a walking stick, but that will not change its nature.