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282 pages, Hardcover
First published July 10, 2018
… I remembered how he’d washed his hands in a fountain after killing her with the look of a man relieved to have put a difficult task behind him, and my mind ignited like dry kindling; suddenly I was empty of love, and had no purpose in life but to be his undoing. I’ve been waiting a long time for my husband to come home.Chilling!
Lines are narrative connections which form constellations.I strongly recommend Metamorphica to any student or fan of Greek mythology, or readers who appreciate lyrical writing and fantasy that tends toward the somber and introspective.
A story’s distance from the center increases with its distance from primordial time. The outermost ring is the end of the age of myth, which is the aftermath of the Trojan War or shortly thereafter.
Afterwards, I was going to hang myself. I had the idea she'd be lonely, down in the shadow-lands, afraid of the caverns, the dark, the other ghosts, that even then she needed me, but as I tied the rope to the rafter I remember how he'd washed his hands in a fountain after killing her with the look of a man relieved to have put a disagreeable task behind him, and my mind ignited like dry kindling; suddenly I was empty of love, and had no purpose in life but to be his undoing. I've been waiting a long time for my husband to come home.
It isn’t long before the letter has passed out of Latin and into the native tongues of the couriers or of the peoples they ride past – the men who worship fire, the ones who wear peaked caps and live in excavated mountains…Some couriers, carrying the letter only in their memories, find they have no tongue in common with their successors, and for a moment the letter passes out of language altogether and into gestures – they pretend to weep, to wrestle with brigands, to fend off the short, sharp arrows of the Sythians – or even objects – arrows laid in parallel in the dust, a broken plume, stones piled up in the semblance of a city.
We sailed to Troy beach and saw the surf bursting beneath the white walls of the city and the soldiers teeming black on the shore. The other Greeks scattered from their welcome of arrows but I lifted my shield and stood braced on the prow; the swift arrows sang a high death song around me and only fell silent when the keel cut sand. I jumped into the swell and was first up the white beach and the sword-web of battle felt like coming home. I felt fear in the foe-men as my spear dowsed for heart’s blood, and as I made wretched widows I was ready to die, but no blade would bite me and soon they went running and I leaned on my spear as kites blackened the sky.
Gold, they say, has no history, as it’s endlessly re-forged and melted down. This came to mind when my coins came back from distant countries, clipped and dented, my image worn past recognition. In the beginning I studied their erosion and scars and tried to infer their recent histories but I stopped when I realised that whatever ships, slaves, cities they had been were no more than the varied forms of a single essence, which is money.
They lead me to my new rooms where the maids are waiting to meet me and as I have always been happiest with other women I want them to like me but they keep their eyes on the floor as I go from each to each and praise her hair or eyes or hands though many are neither fair nor young. I say, “You are all so beautiful!’ and this calms them but there’re still too shy to speak to me so I ask questions about their children and about their boyfriends, and to the grandmothers I say I’ve heard they juggle innumerable lovers and how do they manage? They smile a little, and look up for a moment, but it isn’t enough, and they’re relieved when I dismiss them, and when they’ve gone I’ve already forgotten their names, and I sit silently for hours in the empty room as my mind fills with plangent whiteness.
My nights are an endless round of appearances in all the salons and the ballrooms and the colonnades around the gardens, and the chef de protocol directs my motions and even stands behind me and whispers in my ear how kind or cordial or dismissive to be to whatever dignitary or personage, and his instructions become performances, and as I’m stage-managed minutely through every dinner or ball or fête I find myself watching these affairs from a certain distance, emotion moving torpidly across my face when circumstances require a credible show of feeling, for it isn’t mine to feel but only to be seen to feel, and most of all to shine, as at night the great men who have sworn to ignore me struggle not to stare as I stand in the centre of the ballroom while they circulate at a fixed distance, balanced precisely between desire and fear, and it seems I’m the centre not just of the party but of Sparta and all its cities whose lights are constellations revolving around me in the utterly impenetrable and soundless night.
When he’s presented to me I look into his eyes and see a stillness and a distance and a contempt that mirror my own, and when I murmur the usual things what I’m really saying is, Everything you see in me is an illusion, a brilliant surface behind which there is nothing but a slight chill…
Myth should be essential, but often seems schematic. Less a literature of fundamental power than that literature’s echo. The project of Metamorphica is to write the mythology I wish I’d found, much as Ovid did, moving lightly through the ancient sources, taking up what he liked, and reinventing it, as I’ve done with this book.
But as the first numbers pass his lips, he sees that his answer is inexact, and adds a digit to amend it. But even then, an error remains, so he adds another. And though the error dwindles, it doesn’t disappear even after the tenth, the thousand, the ten-thousandth revision. The line seems to rush toward him. And with great clarity, he sees the scarred, prismatic mountains of the sand grains, as the digits surge by… He struggles at first, as the number pours over him. And is distantly aware the passing of the millionth, and then the billionth digits. And still the progression roars on. As the initial panic subsides, he reflects that the torrent of random numbers is as meaningless, and as comforting, as rain pattering a rooftop. And the digits blow past unremarked. And his thoughts become a grey blur, as his old life comes to seem remote, like a ghost hastening off into evening.