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Anne Carson

Norma Jeane Baker of Troy

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    CASE STUDY: The Russian military now uses decoy armaments of a Euripidean design — lifesize tanks, MiG-31 fighter jets and missile launchers made of inflatable plastic. A hot-air balloon company provides them to the Ministry of Defense.
  • laviviancaцитирапреди 3 години
    It took them ten years to walk to it.

    A thousand bloody T-shirts left on the sand.

    Oh I need a drink.

    Or a big bowl of whipped cream. I’ve got to think.
  • laviviancaцитирапреди 3 години
    The truth is,

    a cloud went to Troy.

    A cloud in the shape of Norma Jean Baker.

    The gods arranged it, sort of.

    They flew me to LA. Locked me in a suite of the Chateau Marmont.
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    This is the Nile and I’m a liar.

    Those are both true.
  • gonzalo ortegaцитирапреди 4 години
    CHANGING ATTITUDES: An ancient Homeric catalogue of battlefield trauma would include wounds to eyeball, nose, palate, forehead, throat, collarbone, back of skull, nape of neck, upper arm, forearm, heart, lungs, liver, spleen, thigh, knee, shin, heel, ankle. Lasting psychological damage, however keen a concern of modern research, does not seem to have interested the ancient poet.
  • Ivana Melgozaцитирапреди 4 години
    Yes, and I’m putting in every detail.

    Every blade of grass on Priam’s lawn.

    every lick of wind on a warrior’s cheek,

    every thin brown bat that whistled past the Greek

    tents at dusk,

    every fly that buzzed over their shit,

    every pointless prayer,

    every opaque oracle,

    every bone that broke

    in the baby they tossed over the wall on the last day.
  • Ivana Melgozaцитирапреди 4 години
    I say to myself. Hermione is not lying under a sheet in a beeping overlit emergency room. Hermione will run towards us, laughing and skeptical, with her coat undone. I keep trying to focus on her running with her coat undone, as she always did, and me reaching to close it, as I always did, me doing up a button and her pulling away exasperated, undoing it.
  • Ivana Melgozaцитирапреди 4 години
    You grip one another. In the night, in the silence, the grip slowly loosens and silence washes you out somewhere onto a shore of sleep.

    Morning arrives. Troy is still there. You hear from below the clatter of everyone putting on their armour. You go to the window.
  • Ivana Melgozaцитирапреди 4 години
    Hell smells stale. Fights aren’t about anything, fights are about themselves. You’re stiff.
  • Ivana Melgozaцитирапреди 4 години
    War pours out of both of you, steaming and stinking. You rush backward from it and become children, every sentence slamming you back into the child you still are, every sentence not what you meant to say at all but the meaning keeps contracting, or flaring, or flaring and contracting, as sparks drop on gasoline
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