Christa Wolf

Cassandra

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Cassandra, daughter of the King of Troy, is endowed with the gift of prophecy but fated never to be believed. After ten years of war, Troy has fallen to the Greeks, and Cassandra is now a prisoner, shackled outside the gates of Agamemnon's Mycenae. Through memories of her childhood and reflections on the long years of conflict, Cassandra pieces together the fall of her city. From a woman living in an age of heroes, here is the untold personal story overshadowed by the battlefield triumphs of Achilles and Hector.

This stunning reimagining of the Trojan War is a rich and vivid portrayal of the great tragedy that continues to echo throughout history.

'A beautiful work.' —
Bettany Hughes
'
Cassandra is fierce and feverish poetry that engages with the ancient stories while also charting its own path. Filled with passionate and startling insight into human nature.' —
Madeline Miller, author of The Song of Achilles
'Christa Wolf wrote books that crossed and overcame the divide of East and West, books that have lasted: the great, allegorical novels.' —
Günter Grass
'A sensitive writer of the purest water — an East German Virginia Woolf.' —
Guardian
'One of the most prominent and controversial novelists of her generation.' —
New York Review of Books
This book is currently unavailable
381 printed pages
Copyright owner
Bookwire
Original publication
2013
Publication year
2013
Publisher
Daunt Books
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Quotes

  • Ivana Melgozahas quoted3 months ago
    It was for his sake, whom I hated, and for the sake of my father, whom I loved, that I had avoided screaming their state secret out loud. There was a grain of calculation in my self-renunciation. Eumelos saw through me. My father did not.
  • Ivana Melgozahas quoted2 days ago
    here, at one of the southernmost tips of Europe, that I would be overwhelmed by that sense of forlornness that signals the loss of all the coordinates where we embed ourselves, to which we cling. Forlorn, standing at the farthest outlying point of the pier that extends far into the sea, I watched the early, triumphal sunset behind the fortress of Burdzi and behind the mountain chain that shields the port on the west. Forlorn, I roamed through the queer streets of the Venetian Old Town. A malady which I did not want to call homesickness severed the tie between me and these little streets, this plump round moon, this polished sky.
  • Ivana Melgozahas quoted2 days ago
    But recently I have come to understand the source of the passion that drove Heinrich Schliemann and Arthur Evans, and my understanding is destined to grow until it borders on a passion that will drive me to an immoderate bout of reading and stand in the way of a sensible, rational work plan. The steps of the ancient forum where the apostle Paul may well have preached to the Corinthians, with the pillars of the far more ancient temple of Apollo in the background: this picture affords more insight than books can into the way various strata of belief are linked to various strata of rocks. What kind of faith will the people of the future (assuming there are people in the future) read out of our stone, steel, and concrete ruins? How will they account for the hubris of the gigantic metropolises, in which people cannot live without paying the penalty? Of the maze of themes which we, its contemporaries, perceive in our civilisation, will only a few remain? Power. Wealth. Delusions of grandeur?

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