Bury me in a tomb on the beach, because I am dead. 
 This book killed me. It was a rollercoaster of emotions. Joyful and strange and confusing and then fucking heartbreaking. Just terrible event after terrible event, but the book itself revolves around a conceptual spoiler; we know how it's going to end. But for some reason, we hope that it might be different this time. It won't. 
 There's nothing I can, in good conscience, criticise: I hated Achilles with his infuriating hubris, and I hated the looming certainty of the Trojan war, and most of all I hated Pyrrhus, but it's not an irritating hatred. It's a carefully plotted hatred, knowingly tugged from the reader. This book is superbly written, emotionally manipulative in a subtle, intelligent way. The prose alone is beautiful. Bright images, like the bloody chaos of the battle on the beach at Troy, Chiron's crystal cave, the sea spray at Scyros, Achilles and Patroclus against the starry night sky in Phthia. 
 It's a frustrating read, rage-inducing and only occasionally sweet, but always so lovely. The inevitability of the heartbreaking ending doesn't diminish the purpose of reading it. You don't arrive at the end and feel like all of it was pointless, as is always a pitfall with stories that end this way. (view spoiler)[Half Lost, The Book Thief, you catch my drift. You walk a fine line when you kill all of the protagonists. (hide spoiler)] But this book is deft, and it knows how to handle its subject matter with finality, with frankness, with respect. 
 After all of this, I think I need to lie down with a cold cloth on my forehead. And I need like seven cups of tea. I feel so drained. 
 Oh, yeah, and one last note, just to clear up any doubts anybody might have about my feelings towards Achilles, fucking Achilles: 
 Patroclus deserved better. 
 Patroclus deserved better. 
 Patroclus deserved better.