I know as no one else knows that the gods are distant, they have other concerns. They care about human desires and antics in the same way that I care about the leaves of a tree. I know the leaves are there, they wither and grow again and wither, as people come and live and then are replaced by others like them. There is nothing I can do to help them or prevent their withering. I do not deal with their desires.
A reimagining of the tale of Agamemnon beginning with Clytemnestra speaking of her daughter Iphigenia being sacrificed.
A book that I wanted to read through but which also seemed strangely sanitised and left me wondering what, if anything, the author knew of rage and helplessness and revenge ask put together.