Natalie Haynes

How much epic poetry does the world really need?

The camp had been an eyesore to the west of their city, behind the mouth of the River Scamander, for so long that it was peculiar to see the shore without it, like a gangrenous limb finally amputated. Less horrifying than what had been, but still unsettling.

I see you. I see all those who men call monsters.

And I see the men who call them that. Call themselves heroes, of course.

Enough to know that the hero isn’t the one who’s kind or brave or loyal. Sometimes – not always, but sometimes – he is monstrous.

And the monster? Who is she? She is what happens when someone cannot be saved.

As Zeus raped her, she thought of being an eagle.

exchanged without warning for a cold, gripping panic whenever a child stumbled or hid or cried.

This, she knew, was love. And she felt it even though she did not want it.

Hera and Zeus were ideally matched, at least in terms of their capacity to antagonize one another. There were days when she believed he could scarcely rise from his bed without seducing or raping someone.

He was there more than not, happiest alone making things.

Imagine being a god, she thought, and still needing to tell everyone how impressive you were.