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 quoted7 hours ago
    The visions which overwhelm her no longer have anything to do with the ritual decrees of her oracle. She ‘sees’ the future because she has the courage to see things as they really are in the present.
  • Ivana Melgozahas quoted4 days ago
    The second of the wild animals behind the wire fence has been shot; it is bleeding from a shoulder wound, looks at us reproachfully, sadly, and at the same time implacably. ‘Did you shoot at it?’ I ask H. ‘Naturally,’ he says, ‘what else could one do?’ He has taken a hunting rifle that was hanging on a wall in the kitchen. But he could not shoot again, he says. The animal does not look as if it was about to die of this wound. It occurs to us that the animals might have escaped from a passing circus. It is too late to make inquiries. We cannot possibly live with them. We cannot kill them, either. They will not leave our kitchen voluntarily. We stand there, eye to eye with the mute wild beasts, and know: it is a hopeless situation.

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