en
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
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381 trykte sider
Copyrightindehaver
Bookwire
Oprindeligt udgivet
2013
Udgivelsesår
2013
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Citater

  • Ivana Melgozahar citeretfor 5 dage siden
    No doubt people are right when they say that the closer you come to death, the closer and brighter are the pictures of childhood and youth. An eternity has passed since I looked at them.
  • Ivana Melgozahar citeretfor 5 dage siden
    In the end I no longer liked Panthous. I did not like the thing in me which he had been able to seduce.

    Who lives will see. It occurs to me that secretly I am tracking the story of my fear. Or more precisely, the story of its unbridling: more precisely still, of its setting free. Yes, it’s true, fear too can be set free
  • Ivana Melgozahar citeretfor 5 dage siden
    I really got to know Troy, my centre, I understood what he meant. It was not curiosity that would have driven me away, but horror. But where was there a place left to go, and in what ship?

    I really do not know why Panthous preoccupies me so. Is it that some word, linked to his name, is trying to free itself from depths to which I have not descended? Or is it an image? An image from long, long ago that is floating and that perhaps I can capture if I let my attention wander quietly where it will.

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