Atreus Quotes

But there is a cure in the house, and not outside it, no, not from others but from them, their bloody strife. We sing to you, dark gods beneath the earth.

Why, pray, must the Argives needs fight the Trojans? What made the son of Atreus gather the host and bring them? Was it not for the sake of Helen? Are the sons of Atreus the only men in the world who love their wives? Any man of common right feeling will love and cherish her who is his own, as I this woman, with my whole heart

... no treasure-house of Atreus was ever as rich as a well-stored memory.

Tell me your favourite color, Daphne, and I’ll paint the sky with it.

Atreus: Who would reject the flood of fortune’s gifts? Thyestes: Anyone who has experienced how easily they flow back.” —SENECA, THYESTES, 536

At that point Lord Agamemnon, Atreus’ son, began shitting whole goats,” laughs Orus, speaking loudly enough that several captains turn to frown at us.

...while epic fantasy is based on the fairy tale of the just war, that’s not one you’ll find in Grimm or Disney, and most will never recognize the shape of it. I think the fantasy genre pitches its tent in the medieval campground for the very reason that we even bother to write stories about things that never happened in the first place: because it says something subtle and true about our own world, something it is difficult to say straight out, with a straight face. Something you need tools to say, you need cheat codes for the human brain--a candy princess or a sugar-coated unicorn to wash down the sour taste of how bad things can really get. See, I think our culture has a slash running through the middle of it, too. Past/Future, Conservative/Liberal, Online/Offline. Virgin/Whore. And yes: Classical/Medieval. I think we’re torn between the Classical Narrative of Self and the Medieval Narrative of Self, between the choice of Achilles and Keep Calm and Carry On. The Classical internal monologue goes like this: do anything, anything, only don’t be forgotten. Yes, this one sacrificed his daughter on a slab at Aulis, that one married his mother and tore out his eyes, and oh that guy ate his kids in a pie. But you remember their names, don’t you? So it’s all good in the end. Give a Greek soul a choice between a short life full of glory and a name echoing down the halls of time and a long, gentle life full of children and a quiet sort of virtue, and he’ll always go down in flames. That’s what the Iliad is all about, and the Odyssey too. When you get to Hades, you gotta have a story to tell, because the rest of eternity is just forgetting and hoping some mortal shows up on a quest and lets you drink blood from a bowl so you can remember who you were for one hour. And every bit of cultural narrative in America says that we are all Odysseus, we are all Agamemnon, all Atreus, all Achilles. That we as a nation made that choice and chose glory and personal valor, and woe betide any inconvenient “other people” who get in our way. We tell the tales around the campfire of men who came from nothing to run dotcom empires, of a million dollars made overnight, of an actress marrying a prince from Monaco, of athletes and stars and artists and cowboys and gangsters and bootleggers and talk show hosts who hitched up their bootstraps and bent the world to their will. Whose names you all know. And we say: that can be each and every one of us and if it isn’t, it’s your fault. You didn’t have the excellence for it. You didn’t work hard enough. The story wasn’t about you, and the only good stories are the kind that have big, unignorable, undeniable heroes.

So, this is how Helen of Troy felt.

The strangest thing about drowning is how much it burns.

Is life nothing more than a moment of impact, and your mistakes the only thing that makes it down the mountainside?

And it's impossible for me to keep thinking about what he could mean to the world, when he means more than the world to me.

That does not mean I must run to help the sons of Atreus every time they lose their wives.

Un dessein si funeste, S'il n'est digne d'Atrée, est digne de Tyeste Such a mean plan is unworthy of Atreus, but totally worthy of Thyestes

A peal of mirth almost escaped me at the notion of shaming the blood-soaked House of Atreus, as if it had even been clean.

By all accounts, she seems like a lovely woman,” Atreus said for his ears only. “And she keeps you in line.” Jax smiled, a shade embarrassed. “There is good reason for that. I am afraid of her.

I didn't know what to tell her.I wished I could say that like the House of Atreus or Cadmus we were suffering for the sinesof our forefathers, or fulfilling an ancient Greek oracle.But I had no answer for her, or for myself.

I want to sort of kill you," he says, drawing out the joke. “I guess I want to sort of kill you, too,” I admit.” “I guess that means I’m yours, then,” he says.

We’re damned if we do and damned if we don’t.

I can fly. You think that’s not weird?" "Actually, I think it’s pretty awesome.

How are your slaying skills?" I ask. "Did I mention I’m an artist?" he says, raising an eyebrow.

More often than not, star-crossed lovers are their own worst enemies.

Are you going to senior prom with Jax?" she asks. Ajax chokes on his chicken. I thump him on the back as he goes beet red.

Do you have to do that a lot?" "What?" I ask. "Deflect, so men don't start inflicting poetry on you.

He hugs me again. 'So long as when we're alone, I want you to be you". I melt against him. "Deal".

All I can think about is that you're here, somewhere in the city. It makes me want to burn down every building between us until all that's left is you and me.

Wrath, goddess, sing of Achilles Pēleus’s son’s calamitous wrath, which hit the Achaians with countless ills— many the valiant souls it saw off down to Hādēs, souls of heroes, their selves left as carrion for dogs and all birds of prey, and the plan of Zeus was fulfilled — from the first moment those two men parted in fury, Atreus’s son, king of men, and the godlike Achilles.

Wrath, goddess, sing of Achilles Pēleus’s son’s calamitous wrath, which hit the Achaians with countless ills— many the valiant souls it saw off down to Hādēs, souls of heroes, their selves left as carrion for dogs and all birds of prey, and the plan of Zeus was fulfilled — from the first moment those two men parted in fury, Atreus’s son, king of men, and the godlike Achilles.

Like the girl, he seems to bend the light around him, and although he is nearly as attractive as the girl in his own way, it is his artistic fire that created a bubble around him rather than his beauty.

My father, father!' - she might pray to the winds; no innocence moves her judges mad for war. Her father called his henchmen on, on with a prayer, 'Host her over the alter like a yearling, give it all your strength! She's fainting - lift her, sweep her robes around her, but slip this strap in her gentle curving lips... here, gag her hard, a sound will curse the house'- and the bridle chokes her voice... her saffron robes pouring over the sand her glance like arrows showering wounding every murderer through with pity clear as a picture, live, she strains to call their names... I remember often the days with father's guests when over the feast her voice unbroken, purees the home her loving father bearing third libations, sang to Saving Zeus - transfixed with joy, Atreus' offspring throbbing out their love.

In the modern era, teachers and scholarship have traditionally laid strenuous emphasis on the fact that Briseis, the woman taken from Achilles in Book One, was his géras, his war prize, the implication being that her loss for Achilles meant only loss of honor, an emphasis that may be a legacy of the homoerotic culture in which the classics and the Iliad were so strenuously taught—namely, the British public-school system: handsome and glamorous Achilles didn’t really like women, he was only upset because he’d lost his prize! Homer’s Achilles, however, above all else, is spectacularly adept at articulating his own feelings, and in the Embassy he says, “‘Are the sons of Atreus alone among mortal men the ones / who love their wives? Since any who is a good man, and careful, / loves her who is his own and cares for her, even as I now / loved this one from my heart, though it was my spear that won her’ ” (9.340ff.). The Iliad ’s depiction of both Achilles and Patroklos is nonchalantly heterosexual. At the conclusion of the Embassy, when Agamemnon’s ambassadors have departed, “Achilles slept in the inward corner of the strong-built shelter, / and a woman lay beside him, one he had taken from Lesbos, / Phorbas’ daughter, Diomede of the fair colouring. / In the other corner Patroklos went to bed; with him also / was a girl, Iphis the fair-girdled, whom brilliant Achilles / gave him, when he took sheer Skyros” (9.663ff.). The nature of the relationship between Achilles and Patroklos played an unlikely role in a lawsuit of the mid-fourth century B.C., brought by the orator Aeschines against one Timarchus, a prominent politician in Athens who had charged him with treason. Hoping to discredit Timarchus prior to the treason trial, Aeschines attacked Timarchus’ morality, charging him with pederasty. Since the same charge could have been brought against Aeschines, the orator takes pains to differentiate between his impulses and those of the plaintiff: “The distinction which I draw is this—to be in love with those who are beautiful and chaste is the experience of a kind-hearted and generous soul”; Aeschines, Contra Timarchus 137, in C. D. Adams, trans., The Speeches of Aeschines (Cambridge, MA, 1958), 111. For proof of such love, Aeschines cited the relationship between Achilles and Patroklos; his citation is of great interest for representing the longest extant quotation of Homer by an ancient author. 32

too have passed many sleepless nights, and come through many blood-soaked days of fighting, doing battle with men who fight for their own wives. Twelve cities of men I have sacked from my ships, and eleven, I say, on foot throughout Troy’s rich-soiled land; and from all these I carried off as spoil many treasures, valuable treasures,​330 and would take and give them all to Agamemnon the son of Atreus; and he hanging back beside his swift ships accepted them, and would distribute little, and hold on to much.

Why must we battle Trojans, men of Argos? Why did he muster an army, lead us here, that son of Atreus? Why, why in the world if not for Helen with her loose and lustrous hair? Are they the only men alive who love their wives, those sons of Atreus? Never! Any decent man, a man with sense, loves his own, cares for his own as deeply as I, I loved that woman with all my heart, though I won her like a trophy with my spear... But now that he's torn my honor from my hands, robbed me, lied to me—don't let him try me now. I know him too well—he'll never win me over!

I'm used to being stared at, but this is different. He's not really looking at my face. It's like he's watching the air around me, the breath filling my lungs, and possibly even the thoughts swirling in my head. Like he sees me, really sees me, and maybe he sees through me a bit, too.

Maybe you should stop tagging," Castor says. Ajax's face tilts down, his expression echoing a difficult thought. "I can't. Not yet." "Jax," Pallas begins, like he's gearing up to give his brother a lecture. "I will-," Ajax interrupts. "But not just yet. There's one more thing I have to do." "What's that?" Castor asks. Ajax smiles. "I promised someone I'd paint the sky.

Now, as it were, the Olympic magic mountain reveals itself and shows us its roots. The Greek knew and felt the terror and horrors of existence: in order to be able to live at all, he must have placed in front of him the gleaming dream birth of the Olympians. That immense distrust of the titanic forces of nature, that Moira [Fate]enthroned mercilessly above everything which could be known, that vulture of the great friend of man, Prometheus, that fatal lot of wise Oedipus, that family curse on the House of Atreus, which compelled Orestes to kill his mother, in short, that entire philosophy of the woodland god, together with its mythical illustrations, from which the melancholy Etruscans died off — that was overcome time after time by the Greeks, or at least hidden and removed from view, through the artistic middle world [Mittelwelt] of the Olympians.

Here’s the thing about true love. If there are seven billion people on the planet, there are seven billion different ways to see it. There is no such thing as the most beautiful woman in the world. What looks like love for one person doesn’t for another. Aphrodite, the Goddess of Love, could become any woman because any woman could be the most beautiful woman in the world to someone. I’ve always loved that about Aphrodite. Even though she'd picked her favourite, she knew that every face was worthy of adoration.

I've dreamed about you my whole life, but I never imagined you were real. I should have known what you were, but it honestly never occurred to me. I don't know if I should be happy or sad that you're one of us. It doesn't make any sense for us to meet again, but I saw you and I can't unsee you now. All I can think about is that you're here, somewhere in the city. It makes me want to burn down every building between us until all that's left is you and me. I think the less I know about you, the safer you'll be, but I can't shake this feeling that there's a reason I've been drawing you since I was old enough to hold a crayon. I need to hear from you. Tell me you hate me. Tell me to go to hell. Anything. Just write me back. Ajax

This water is greatly valued,” Kassandra said. “Event today, we bring ewers of it to the temples for blessings.” She looked at him again, a bit anxiously, he thought, but as before the impression was swiftly gone. Bending, she cupped her palm, caught sparkling drops of water and drank. The liquid slipped down her throat, cool, clear and incredibly pure. She drank a little more and felt the tension easing from her body, little by little, almost imperceptibly at first, but gathering in strength with each passing moment. “Why don’t you try it?” she suggested and stood aside so that he could do so. As Royce bent to catch the water in his hand, Kassandra almost reached out to stop him but drew back at the last moment. He was a strong man, it would still be his voice. The water was merely…encouragement. From time immemorial, Akoran husbands and wives had enjoyed a goblet of the water taken from the buried temple on their wedding night. Years later, old couples basking in the sun would remember it fondly and share secret looks of tender passion. Of course, it was also possible that the water did nothing and all was mere legend. She wanted to believe that, for it eased her conscience, but the heat seeping through her made her uncertain. She stared at Royce as he drank, watching the ripple of the water ease down his throat. He was such a beautiful man, so perfectly formed in body and mind. The memory of him on the field at the Games, on horseback wearing only a kilt, his powerful muscles flexing as he threw the javelin, haunted her dreams. Ever since then, she had been living in a nightmare. Atreus…the danger to Akora…her own death the price to save both family and home…all seemed to close around her until she could scarcely breathe. Until the moment when she emerged from her desperate, futile quest for vision to see in Royce’s beloved face the future for which she yearned with all her heart. A future that in all likelihood was impossible. That being the case, was it so terribly wrong to steal a little happiness in the fleeting present?

All I have to do is survive until graduation. One day at a time, right? I know that’s a mantra from Alcoholics Anonymous, but as far as odious afflictions go, it’s my experience that high school should have a twelve-step recovery or its own. There’d probably be fewer alcoholics if it did.

House Atreides claimed to trace its roots more than twelve thousand years, back to the ancient sons of Atreus on Old Terra. Now the family embraced its long history, despite the numerous tragic and dishonorable incidents it contained. The dukes had made an annual tradition of performing the classic tragedy Agamemnon, most famous son of Atreus and one of the generals who had conquered Troy.

Ich habe schon mein ganzes Leben von dir geträumt, aber nie gedacht, dass es dich wirklich gibt. Ich hätte es wissen müssen, bin aber ehrlich nicht auf die Idee gekommen. Ich weiß nicht, ob ich froh oder traurig sein soll, dass du eine von uns bist. Es ist sinnlos, dass wir uns noch mal treffen, aber ich habe dich gesehen und kann es jetzt nicht mehr ungesehen machen. Ich kann nur noch daran denken, dass du hier bist, irgendwo in dieser Stadt. Am liebsten würde ich alle Häuser zwischen uns niederbrennen, bis nur noch du und ich übrig sind. Ich denke, je weniger ich über dich weiß, desto sicherer bist du, aber ich werde das Gefühl nicht los, dass es einen Grund dafür gibt, dass ich dich zeichne, seit ich alt genug war, um einen Buntstift zu halten. Ich muss von dir hören. Sag mir, dass du mich hasst. Sag mir, ich soll zur Hölle fahren. Irgendwas. Aber schreib zurück. Ajax

CASSANDRA: Down to the dead I go victorious, ruining the house of Atreus that ruined us.

Even though Atreus involved himself with the men, he couldn’t help but remain awed by his conversation with Jax.  The man was being pulled apart by emotion, something he had never before experienced. That could be dangerous, especially when it came to Jax de Velt. The man was devastatingly unpredictable as it was without the added element of emotion. Love. 

Jax didn’t know what to say; he was as close to raging with insanity as he had ever been in his life.  He was, frankly, afraid to say anything at all, afraid he would explode in all directions. Atreus could see the turmoil, the fury, in his lord’s two-colored eyes.  He’d never been truly afraid of Jax until this moment; now, he could see the fire of the Devil raging in the oddly colored eyes and he was seriously concerned.

Without a word, Atreus unsheathed his broadsword in a single smooth motion and thrust it into Amadeo’s chest.  Amadeo’s eyes widened at the shock, the pain, the betrayal. As Jax reached him, he drove his sword in to the man’s back. Gored in the front and in the back, Amadeo collapsed to the floor in a heap. 

If a woman receives only cruelty or indifference from her husband, father, brother, or son, why should she trust her well-being to any of them?

the long history of our House, we have been constantly shadowed by Misfortune, as if we were its prey. One might almost believe the curse of Atreus from ancient Greek times on Old Terra.

So now all of this writing has diverted me from my purpose and I am not in the right state of mind anymore.  If you think it is easy to procrastinate on a school assignment, try killing yourself some time.

Not allowing people to choose the time and manner of their own deaths is madness.  It is burning witches.  It is executing people for making scientific discoveries.  It is torturing infidels.  It is absolute, unqualified, inhuman insanity.  There are millions who agree with me and I’ll warn all of you again and again.  Beware!  There could be a horrible fate waiting for you and if you don’t all get together, look each other in the eye, recognize the insanity, and change the laws, you could wake up tomorrow as a head on a corpse with no way out for the next thirty years.

I did not want much from the world in dying.  To be able to put my affairs in order without fear of being taken prisoner and treated like I was insane.  To say goodbye to those I loved without the same fear.  To die a painless death without worrying about leaving behind something gruesome.  And to be comforted as I died.  When a person has absolutely nothing left and is facing annihilation, all he wants is not to be alone.  But maybe you have to be there to truly understand it.  I wanted someone to hold my hand, to touch my face, to be with me.  The thing I feared most in life was being alone.  How empty to exist in this universe and share your feelings and experience with nobody!  But that is how you, the world, have left me to die, alone.  But what you don’t realize is this: in turning your backs on me, you have turned your backs on yourselves.

Someday you will be on your deathbed and maybe you will remember me.  What I say to the world is that if you don’t do something about the way death and assisted suicide are dealt with, you may someday find yourselves in an unimaginably horrible situation with no way out.  Someday when you are helpless you may realize that your life is not your own after all and you will see that sometimes being forced to live is the ultimate tyranny and enslavement.

Nenn mir deine Lieblingsfarbe, Daphne, und ich werde den Himmel damit einfärben.

Vielleicht solltest du mit dem Sprayen aufhören”, sagt Castor. Ajax verzieht das Gesicht, er sieht aus, als ginge ihm ein komplizierter Gedanke durch den Kopf. “Kann ich nicht. Noch nicht.” “Jax”, beginnt Pallas, offenbar will er seinem Bruder ins Gewissen reden. “Ich mach’s”, unterbricht ihn Ajax. “Aber noch nicht jetzt. Ich muss noch eine Sache erledigen.” “Und welche?”, fragt Castor. Ajax lächelt. “Ich habe jemandem versprochen, den Himmel anzumalen.

Being an inevitable result of the original curse upon the House of Atreus, the Furies also symbolize the fact that mental illness is a family affair, created in one by one’s parents and grandparents as the sins of the father are visited upon the children. But Orestes did not blame his family—his parents or his grandfather—as he well might have. Nor did he blame the gods or “fate.” Instead he accepted his condition as one of his own making and undertook the effort to heal it.

When fear seizes you, Atreus, that is the moment you must become fearless.

(Atreus & Freya discuss the magical, but injured, boar named Hildisvíni) Atreus: How is he? Freya: He needs rest... but I think he's out of danger. Atreus: Does he have a name? Freya: Hildisvíni. He's been a good friend for a long time. Atreus: I've never seen a boar like him. You said he was the last in the realm? Freya: The last in this realm. He's from somewhere else entirely. Back home he could take any form he liked... but since he came here, he's been... stuck. Atreus: Stuck as a boar? Freya: Stuck in his mind. His own true nature grows faint in his memory, like a dream... while the illusion feels more real every passing day. Atreus: Not sure I understand. Freya: To live... simply to live, in your physical form, day after day... it's hard to resist believing you are your form. In youth, he might have had the strength to rebel... but Hildisvíni is very, very old. Without me to remind him of home - of himself - I fear the Boar is all that will remain. Atreus: Well, I hope he finds his way home. Freya: Thank you, child. I do too. God of War (2018 video game) Game Writers: Matt Sophos, Richard Zangrande Gaubert, Cory Barlog