Nuts and Bolts Review - The Song of Achilles, Madeline Miller
Beyond myth and fate: a thoughtful exploration of vulnerability and love in The Song of Achilles
⏱️ Reading Time ≈ 20 min
The Book
Madeline Miller transports us to an ancient Greece that is not merely a stage for heroes and battles, but a universe composed of sensations, fragility, and subtle emotions. From the very first pages, the novel unfolds like an embrace—a narrative caress that comforts the reader while unveiling a complex and painful story. Although the myth has always been shrouded in great deeds and inexorable destinies, the author transforms these elements into an intimate and surprisingly modern reading experience, where strength is found not only in the clash of arms, but also in the sweetness of words and the delicacy of feelings.
Miller dismantles the confines of tradition, offering a narrative that, while reminiscent of classical epics, distinguishes itself by making the characters’ emotions palpable. Achilles, the legendary hero, and Patroclus, the young man in search of affirmation and love, come alive before us, not because of their superhuman prowess, but due to their fragile nature, their uncertainties, and their longing to be understood. It is in this interplay of light and shadow, of strength and fragility, of anger and love, that the novel captivates.
What sets Miller's prose apart is its unexpected gentleness—a softness that, much like a whisper, guides the reader along a path filled with deep reflections. The author doesn't merely recount an ancient myth; she reinvents it, transforming classical elements into an immersive, sensorial, and contemplative experience.. Her ability to evoke powerful, authentic emotions—those sudden surges of pathos, burning desire, and panic that becomes as palpable as a living creature—makes this novel a work that speaks directly to the heart.
The novel also reflects on the vulnerability of power and the humanity concealed beneath the myth's facade. In a world where things are not always as they seem, Miller beckons us to peer beyond the surface, to discover the intricate complexity of the characters and the subtle beauty found in every detail: in every look, every pause, and every word softly spoken between the lines.
This fusion of beauty and disquiet characterizes the reading experience crafted by the author. It serves as a call to surrender, to acknowledge that even in myth, human vulnerability is present, and that the true power of a story rests in its capacity to move the soul.
The work beckons us to turn inward: every word is designed to stir the deepest strings of the soul and to rekindle the significance of authentic emotion. Thus, the novel unfolds as a window to the world—a realm where fragility morphs into strength and strength into weakness, where, despite fate appearing written in stone, every decision is an act of freedom and the awareness of death intensifies the beauty of life.
My Two Cents
As previously mentioned, The Song of Achilles delves into numerous themes, rendering it an exceptionally layered book. The novel deals with fame and greed, death, strength and weakness, and demonstrates how the boundaries between these concepts can be extremely thin—or even non-existent at times. One particularly significant element is fate and its impact on those it touches: a predestined future that, at once, signifies the confinement of an inevitable end and the liberating act of those who, by rising above it, unveil life's inherent power. Moreover, the book recounts a central love story between Patroclus and Achilles—a bond that is challenging, tempestuous, multifaceted, and almost uncontainable; a love that defies hardships, divine will, and destiny, a love that not even death can break apart. And then there’s the story of a secondary character whose fragility transforms into strength—a presence that overflows: I’m talking, of course, about Patroclus.
With so many themes at play, narrowing down to just one might seem restrictive. However, driven by the profound emotional intensity of the book, I decided to let the theme that captivated me most guide my analysis: the theme of dignified burial. This concept emerges repeatedly, both in a chronological sense—appearing in two successive episodes—and narratively.
This is a multifaceted issue because it encompasses several realms of the protagonists’ existence:
Culturally, dignified burial is regarded as essential for the soul’s immortality (without it, the soul lingers on earth rather than moving freely into the afterlife).
Supernaturally, it pertains to the significance and force of the afterlife.
Emotionally, it emerges as the moral obligation of the living to honor the departed—granting them a semblance of eternal life—and the profound grief felt when such a passage is denied.
Chronologically, the concept of dignified burial emerges in two pivotal episodes. First, Priam pleads with Achilles to hand over Hector's corpse—which Achilles had retained in his camp, letting it rot—so that the Trojan king may bestow upon his son a proper burial. In this instance, Priam's suffering and vulnerability arise from his fear that, without the sacred rites, Hector's soul will wander the earth instead of transitioning to an eternal afterlife. To achieve this, Priam sacrifices his dignity, casting aside his status as king to present himself merely as a loving father, willing to sacrifice everything for his son. Notably, Achilles had held onto Hector's body as a form of psychological retribution against the Trojans, and especially against Priam. His nihilism and apathy, spurred by the loss of Patroclus, are hardly tenable. Yet it is exactly this induced indifference—the void of meaning—that compels Achilles, even amid his hatred, to return Hector's body.
In the next episode, the ashes of Achilles and Patroclus are buried together after being blended, in accordance with Achilles’ wishes. While Achilles’ soul finds freedom, Patroclus’ remains trapped on earth, unable to pass into the afterlife because he did not receive a proper burial—his name, in fact, is missing from the tombstone. This is where a form of karmic justice comes into play: Achilles, who in the first episode denied the rite to punish Priam, now indirectly endures the consequences of his behavior, suffering the penalty of eternal separation. He is hit by the very punishment he had intended for Priam. Yet ultimately, it is Patroclus who pays the price, his spirit doomed to an endless wandering on earth. And still, Patroclus, the unequivocal protagonist of the narrative, manages to impress with his sensitivity; his radiance outshines both adversity and death itself.
Then, Patroclus talks with Teti, and finally, she concedes. She carves Patroclus’s name into the monument, freeing his soul to ascend to the afterlife and be reunited with his beloved.
Teti has always rejected Patroclus, never having been convinced of or satisfied with the love that flourished between him and her son Achilles. She had never deemed Patroclus worthy of matching her son; indeed, she had lost even her admiration for Achilles, who, in her view, had turned out to be weak. Consequently, Teti’s subsequent act might initially appear without explanation, yet it is laden with significance and constitutes the true climax of the narrative—emerging only in the final pages after a tearful crescendo that spotlights Patroclus’s imprisoned soul. Teti’s hardened exterior is shattered by a startling revelation: what makes a man great, that transforms him into a hero, is not found in his heroic exploits, his noble origins, or even his fated destiny; rather, it is the quotidian acts he undertakes when samsara turns into nirvana. Even a goddess, capable of conjuring an abomination like Pyrrhus, is compelled by this truth to acknowledge that the one who imparted it was, in the end, deserving of the afterlife. Moreover, she comes to understand that her son is truly worthy of standing alongside Patroclus.
In the first episode, Achilles’ narrow-mindedness is laid bare—he gains nothing from Patroclus, acting purely on his own ego, and his weakness is starkly apparent. In the second episode, on the other hand, it is Patroclus’ delicate vulnerability that accomplishes the most significant act—after Hector’s death—by convincing the goddess Teti. Teti, being a goddess, has no obligation to revise her views. Throughout the tale, she remains resolute, obstructing any reality that fails to meet her expectations. Teti mirrors all of us when, stubbornly, we resist letting the sharp edges of reality mold, adjust, or transform us. Neither the might of war nor the inevitability of death can unsettle her. Yet, ultimately, it is precisely fragility that unseats her, causing the mask of power that once hid her weakness to crumble. Importantly, this narrative thread reveals that indifference, as demonstrated by Achilles in the first episode, is incapable of fostering true understanding—only a genuine act of revelation, like Teti’s, can break the chains that confine us.
I believe that if there's a lesson to be learned from the book, it's precisely this. Regardless of how forcefully we project strength or how humbly we lower our heads in pursuit of our ephemeral, sand-etched ideals, something will invariably dismantle the protective armor we've built around ourselves—usually in a most unforeseen and seemingly trivial manner. And if authenticity can cause a goddess to revise her stance, what transformative power might it hold for us?
In Author’s Words
Quote n.° 1:
“The stars turned, and somewhere the moon crept across the sky. When my eyes dragged closed again, he was waiting for me still, covered in blood, his face as pale as bone. Of course he was. No soul wished to be sent early to the endless gloom of our underworld. Exile might satisfy the anger of the living, but it did not appease the dead.”
Quote n.° 2:
“I stared at him, stunned by the simplicity of it. I could have lied. And then the revelation that followed: if I had lied, I would still be a prince. It was not murder that had exiled me, it was my lack of cunning. I understood, now, the disgust in my father’s eyes. His moron son, confessing all. I recalled how his jaw had hardened as I spoke. He does not deserve to be a king.”
Quote n.° 3:
“Our mouths opened under each other, and the warmth of his sweetened throat poured into mine. I could not think, could not do anything but drink him in, each breath as it came, the soft movements of his lips. It was a miracle.”
Quote n.° 4:
“He was not outside, either, in the trees he and I had climbed. Or by the sea, on the jutting rocks where he waited for his mother. Nor on the practice field where men sweated through drills, clacking their wooden swords. I do not need to say that my panic swelled, that it became a live thing, slippery and deaf to reason.”
Quote n.° 5:
“Her face was like quicksilver, always racing to something new. She unsettled me.”
Quote n.° 6:
““Of course,” Odysseus agreed. “But we are all going to fight the same enemy, are we not? Two dozen generals on one battlefield will be chaos and defeat.” He offered a grin. “You know how well we all get along—we’d probably end up killing each other instead of the Trojans. Success in such a war as this comes only through men sewn to a single purpose, funneled to a single spear thrust rather than a thousand needle-pricks. You lead the Phthians, and I the Ithacans, but there must be someone who uses us each to our abilities”—he tipped a gracious hand towards Achilles —“however great they may be.””
Quote n.° 7:
“From far off, glimpsed only quickly through the corridors of shifting men, I saw Hector. He was always alone, strangely solitary in the space the other men gave him. He was capable and steady and thoughtful, every movement considered. His hands were large and work-roughened, and sometimes, as our army withdrew, we would see him washing the blood from them, so he could pray without pollution. A man who still loved the gods, even as his brothers and cousins fell because of them; who fought fiercely for his family rather than the fragile ice-crust of fame. Then the ranks would close, and he would be gone.”
Quote n.° 8:
“It was a strange time. Over us, every second, hung the terror of Achilles’ destiny, while the murmurs of war among the gods grew louder. But even I could not fill each minute with fear. I have heard that men who live by a waterfall cease to hear it—in such a way did I learn to live beside the rushing torrent of his doom. The days passed, and he lived. The months passed, and I could go a whole day without looking over the precipice of his death. The miracle of a year, then two.”
👋🏼 Make the most of it! Until next time, S.
