had the distinct privilege of coming into this with exactly the right amount of familiarity with cleopatra caesar antony et al which is to say i was briefly, fervently interested when i was nine, u know, when ur nine, and ur discovering the full spectrum of how deranged and scary and magnificent people can be, ur reading HORRIBLE HISTORY or ASSASSINATIONS! (FOR KIDS), and ur like, "oh my god mom listen to this, this pirate used to MAKE PEOPLE EAT THEIR OWN BUTTS" and she's like "did i buy you that??"
there's an enormous and mystifying gulf, when ur nine, between yourself and all the impossibly real people you read about-- your contexts and drives are so different, you can't imagine why or how someone would ever do the things they are doing, but they did; they are infinitely more fantastic and fake than the child heroes in the fiction you're simultaneously reading. those children have passions and minds like urs; mark antony is out here like, i dont even know what he's doing.
so i read a lot of gory roman history, blinking and gasping, saying aloud, "personally i would simply NOT cross the rubicon," and i did not understand why literally anyone would ever do the stupid things these people did, and then i did not think abt them very much at all until i read this book.
listen. i do love retellings. like, there are so many lazy ones, but who among us does not have those handful of stories that will YANK them in id-first every time. and a good retelling has a particularly magical blend of coziness and uncanniness-- going back through a house you have lived in for years made up differently, in ruins or in twilight or in the bleeding sun, and delighting in the familiar made strange-- different notes pulled out, different lighting-- but still familiar, still yours.
the stars undying is an entirely different beast and it ate me. there's some sort of insane alchemy that happens here, and reading it felt like i was hearing this story for the first time.
there is a bit early on where someone describes prophecy as an act of translation, and the book is an impeccable act of translation as well-- carrying over lost political and personal resonances into a new language, finding the entry points for us, now, to understand something impossible, and gone, and shattering those doorways open, so that we are shocked (SHOCKED!) all over at what we already knew happened. like, i have not felt this clobbered by plot twists in my LIFE, and i grew up knowing these plot twists! i took exams on them!!!
frankly i was GASLIT (positive, narrative technique) into like, living out the song "pina colada" but with cleopatra. "oh my god," i would gasp, a split second after this cleopatra revealed she did something that has sung through culture my whole life. "she did that! wait-- i knew she did that!" (that's half the time-- the other half ur hearing someone mention, offhand, a carpet delivery and getting fucking CRANKED into delirious anticipation. there's a singular pleasure in reading something and coming to trust in its execution-- realizing that the jumps will be spectacular and the landings will stick. ur safe to get hype. u will get the payoff.)
anyway, what has changed, obviously, from when i learned this story and i was nine, is that the people feel real now. there is simply not another way to put it. reading this was like watching a human actor walk across a stage before the lowlights of legend, their shadows splashed up enormous behind them and like-- you can see them both at the same time, the person and the mythology, the stain they will make, that you grew up in without connecting it to any particular beating heart.
lots of other things too, insanely horny very funny smarter than any of us, conversations that demand u reread them to catch up to the politicking hidden inside the flirting, the fury, the oversized pink feather coats; a book that will make u think u understand imperial economics somewhat; a book that will bring back ur infantile fury at amy burning jo's manuscript that u thought u outgrew and didn't; a book that will remind u with the slow burn of an eclipse what the real romance is, what romance bludgeoned shakespeare and all the poets to death, and how it's gay, actually, how love spawns in the cracking-open of being truly seen, which is, actually, a fucking threat. like, u know the whole time, and still as it's happening, u think oh my god!!!!!! it's happening!!!!!!!!!
similarly, a narrator who tells u the entire time that she is lying to u and u still find urself gasping at least four separate times like WHAT?!?!? she was LYING TO ME!!! ME!!!!!! [touching my chest] her READER!
[-- the last reveal, of to whom, exactly, she is finally telling one truth--]
the last thing i will say is that the very last scene is the only thing i have read since the queen of attolia that blooms in me, trembling, the same feeling as the queen of attolia-- the light, precise dialogue, the held-breath revelation, of two people who have been knives at each other's throats regarding each other now across a quiet space and doing something new
10/10 ive been looping townie by mitski all week