I went out with my friend Fran today. I arrived at Charing Cross at eight twenty-five. That's like dawn, for central London. It's so pretty in the early morning - there are very few people around, and no one speaks, and there are very few cars or other vehicles. It's so quiet, as if the city is just waking up and stretching its arms. I love it. I love it so much. If I lived in central London, I'd wake up at five every morning just to feel the atmosphere.
It was amazing. Fran turned up at nine, and then we went off, wandering around London and just looking. We walked from Charing Cross to Covent Garden, through Soho and to Holborn, and we somehow arrived at Farringdon, which is amazing, because that is fuck. all. away from Charing Cross. And when we checked our watches, we were kind of shocked, because it was only twelve twenty, and we'd been moving for so long that it felt as if it should be three or four. We were tired enough for it to be.
We sort of collapsed after we reached Farringdon - I'd somehow sustained some sort of injury to my foot, and it ached and hurt enough that I'd wince internally with every step, and Fran was physically exhausted to the point that even after she'd had two coffees she was still swearing like someone had just slapped her mother.
When Fran starts swearing indiscriminately, it means that she's either tired and sleep deprived or she's PMSing.
I was tired too, but that doesn't count, because I'm always tired and I never get enough sleep, so I'm pretty much used to it, and I can push on, somehow mustering the energy to move. Fran is actually sensible, and she sleeps at normal times :)
So we took the bus back to Trafalgar Square (one of my most favourite places in the world) and sat by the fountains for a while, before agreeing that it was too blustery to remain there, and so we moved to the Pret-A-Manger in order to properly rest.
Unfortunately, Fran ended up falling asleep, and it took me a combination of violence (hitting her and poking her) and removing the Frank Turner playing in our headphones to wake her up. So we left Charing Cross and agreed to return home.
I'd told my mother that I was going into school, and therefore would be home at the usual time - five. But it was only three, so instead I went into a coffee shop and read a book that I'd bought earlier on - 'The Song of Achilles'.
It.
Is.
So.
Emotional.
I can't deal with it. It was a new spin on the story, making Patroclus to be Achilles' lover, and showing the whole tragedy of the Battle of Ilium from Patroclus' perspective, and I don't think that I've ever been more distraught when reading a book about the classical legends. There was this line that Achilles kept on repeating: 'Why should I kill Hector? He has done nothing to me.'
And I couldn't deal with that, because it was due to a promise Patroclus made him swear - not to kill Hector for as long as possible, or at least not until Hector had taken something close to his heart - a promise that Patroclus had made him swear out of love for him, because of the prophecy that Achilles would die, young and beautiful, blazing with glory on the plains of Ilium, once he had killed Hector, pride of the Trojans.
But Hector does do something to Achilles.
He kills Patroclus.
And Achilles is livid.
Because he loves Patroclus.
'Why should I kill Hector? He has done nothing to me.'
And Achilles kills him once Hector has slain Patroclus, because then he has done something to him, causing him to suffer a loss far greater than the ruination of his pride at Agamemnon's hands.
And the greatest hero of the Achaeans falls, but only after he has lost his heart.
Heroes never live happily ever after.
'"Name one hero who was happy."
I considered. Heracles went mad and killed his family; Theseus lost his bride and father; Jason's children and new wife were murdered by his old; Bellerophon killed the Chimaera but was crippled by the fall from Pegasus' back.
"You can't." He was sitting up now, leaning forward.
"I can't."
...
"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."'
Oh, Achilles. Seriously. How is anyone supposed to be able to deal with that?
It's heartbreaking.
I don't think I can deal with that.
It's books like this one that really throw the tales of old into a new light - they make them so much clearer. Now when I think back to the Iliad, the rage of Achilles, and the destruction he wreaks upon the Trojans once he finds Patroclus dead, barely clad in his armour, it's so much more emotional and painful.
God, I read 352 pages of sheer legend in two and a half hours. I think that says something about how much of an effect this book had on me. Nowadays I usually find myself losing concentration and taking a few days to finish a book, if not just putting it down somewhere and forgetting about it.
**curls up in bed and hugs books to chest**
**stays there**
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