Achilles in Love

by Stephen Dunn (The Insistence of Beauty, Norton)

There was no getting to his weakness.

In public, even in summer, he wore

big boots, specially made for him,

a band of steel reinforcing each heel.

At home, when he bathed or slept,

he kept a pistol within reach, loaded.

And because to be invulnerable

is to be alone, he was alone even when

he was with you. You could sense it

in the rigidity of his carriage, as if under

his fine-fitting suits were layers of armour.

Yet everyone loved to see him in action:

While his enemies were thinking of small

advantages, he only thought end game.

Then she came along, who seemed to be all

women fused into one, cheekbones and breasts

evidence that evolution doesn’t care

about fairness, and a mind so good, well,

it was like his. You could see his body soften,

and days later, when finally they were naked,

she instinctively knew what to do —

as smart men do with a mastectomy’s scar —

kiss his heel before kissing

what he considered to be his power,

and with a tenderness that made him tremble.

And so Achilles began to live differently.

Both friends and enemies were astounded

by his willingness to listen, and hesitate

before responding. Even in victory he’d

walk away without angering a single god.

He wore sandals now because she liked him in sandals.

He never felt so exposed, or so open to the world.

You could see in his face something resembling terror,

but in fact it was love, for which he would die.

In Greek mythology Achilles was made invulnerable as a result of being dipped in the River Styx by his mother, Thetis, when he was an infant — except for a small area on his right heel where he was held, because the water did not touch it. He was killed only when an arrow pierced this spot, hence the term Achilles’ heel, meaning a person’s weakness.

Love is the Achilles’ heel for most of us because we let down our defences in the belief that the person we love — and who we believe loves us — would never hurt us. Surely they would not wish us to suffer cruelty that was devastatingly magnified by our heightened vulnerability to their every word and action? But if the other person’s feelings change, or if their feelings were not equal to begin with, then we are entirely at their mercy; our overwhelming emotional attachment to them renders us helpless. To save ourselves, we would have to change the way we feel.

In this poem Achilles is initially protected by his lack of attachment to anyone. We are told that “There was no getting to his weakness”. A band of steel reinforces the heels of his boots, protecting the spot where a weapon could kill him. But he also keeps a loaded pistol within reach during his most exposed and vulnerable hours — when asleep or bathing — as if to protect himself from any human proximity that might lead to love, his other Achilles’ heel. For “to be invulnerable/ is to be alone”. Protection of Achilles’ physical weakness (his heel) is also protection of his emotional inner core.

He wears “fine-fitting suits” beneath which there is the suggestion of unseen armour, and we are given the idea that here is a modern man of strength and stature who has achieved much because he is invulnerable. He is elevated in status above his enemies for “he only thought end game” while they were thinking of “small advantages”. His mind is not hampered by the minutiae that occupy others as a result of their relationships, either with each other or the opposite sex.

“Then she came along,” and everything changed. “She” doesn’t need any other identification. “She” represents everything a man could want; in this case it is whatever would get her into Achilles’ bed, head and heart — although not necessarily in that order. She has it all; the cheekbones, the breasts, the brain. And, having a mind “so good . . . it was like his”, she knows that one must first love a partner’s scars to reassure them that their love is genuine and without guile (even when they’re faking it). So she kisses Achilles’ heel “as smart men do with a mastectomy’s scar”. The defencelessness of Achilles’ heel is compared to something that, in women, represents physical and emotional trauma and the potential for their death. Only then does she kiss what “he considered to be his power”, which is a good way of describing an erection so that it is neither crass nor gratuitous.

Achilles in love is open to manipulation. The question is, does the manipulator have his interests at heart? Is he safe in her hands? Like any of us when we are in love, he is influenced by the tastes and opinions of the object of his affection, and begins “to live differently”. He is more willing to listen and thoughtful in his responses; it seems he is becoming more understanding and sympathetic towards others. “Even in victory he’d/ walk away without angering a single god”; the reference to his origins is used to suggest that he is now more diplomatic in winning his battles.

We are told how “He wore sandals now”. In Ancient Greece or on the beach they might be common enough, but for a modern businessman they argue with the “fine-fitting” suits of his usual wardrobe. It seems that his sartorial judgment has been overturned simply because “she liked him in sandals” and he has capitulated to please her, even though it leaves his heels open to assault (and arrows). Having dismantled his emotional defences, she now dismantles the physical defences that are necessary for his assured survival — and his judgment is so coloured by his absolute trust in her that he allows it, even though “He never felt so exposed”.

The love in Achilles’ face resembles an expression of terror, and is that “for which he would die”. I read this in two ways; that he would lay down his life for the woman he loves, so great is that love — but believe the alternative to be the correct interpretation — that he is going to die because he has taken down his armour both in an emotional sense and physical actuality, for love of her. She might be the bringer of death, or she might have cleared the way for death by some other means; it is only a matter of time before the arrow, real or metaphorical, finds him. Love leaves us defenceless, Samson could tell you. But without love and all its attendant risks, life is a cold, hard, colourless place.

frieda.hughes@thetimes.co.uk

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