전체 공개 ・ 04.22
2026.04.22 (Wed)
the truth is, men make terrible pigs. when madeline miller was writing that line in the toasty warmth of her home, she probably wasn't aware that it was going to alter the entire brain chemistry of an eighteen-year-old reader who only enjoyed the romance genre when it came to literature. safe to say, she was the reason i began exploring and found a new set of tropes i grew to enjoy. anything she releases ends up joining the list of my absolute favourites in one way or another. her books disobey all laws of economics by somehow managing to provide us (me specifically) with increasing marginal utility. every chapter i read, every page i turn, makes me seek more - akin to a parched vagabond in search of a drop of water. the song of achilles already set that standard for me. circe, yet another work of hers revolving around greek mythology, was THE book for me for the longest time. not only does it have madeline's signature prose, it is also rich with a well-thought plot and absolute bangers for dialogues. it has an open ending, which might sound unappealing to most people, but i found it perfect. i never thought that someone who was but a minor character in the odyssey, could be moulded into a full-fledged lead with detailed backgrounds, life instances and mannerisms. but oh well, nothing is impossible for miss madeline. adding a long, long thread of my favourite quotes below.
he showed me his scars, and in return he let me pretend that I had none.
i thought: I cannot bear this world a moment longer. then, child, make another.
but in a solitary life, there are rare moments when another soul dips near yours, as stars once a year brush the earth. such a constellation was he to me.
humbling women seems to me a chief pastime of poets. as if there can be no story unless we crawl and weep.
you threw me to the crows, but it turns out I prefer them to you.
but perhaps no parent can truly see their child. when we look we see only the mirror of our own faults.
"you are wise,” he said. “If it is so,” i said, “it is only because i have been fool enough for a hundred lifetimes.
when i was born, the word for what i was did not exist.
he was another knife I could feel it. a different sort, but a knife still. i did not care. i thought: give me the blade. some things are worth spilling blood for.
we are sorry, we are sorry. sorry you were caught, i said. sorry that you thought i was weak, but you were wrong.
but gods are born of ichor and nectar, their excellences already bursting from their fingertips. so they find their fame by proving what they can mar: destroying cities, starting wars, breeding plagues and monsters. all that smoke and savor rising so delicately from our altars. it leaves only ash behind.
but there was no wound she could give me that i had not already given myself.
how many of us would be granted pardon if our true hearts were known?
"you have always been the worst of my children," he said. "be sure not to dishonor me." "i have a better idea. i will do as i please, and when you count your children, leave me out."
but he was a harp with only one string, and the note it played was himself.
venus.