Originally Agamemnon was a story about Cassandra, but she was exiled from it by the history of literature. She was made a foreigner in her own story. On the border she stands waiting, century after century, while all of the other characters come home.

…

Everyone, including Agamemnon, was always telling Cassandra not to speak of this. Her mouth was full of madness and birds, the chorus was dismayed by all the blood and small bones.

The reader is to be forgiven for thinking that, while the narrator is to become Sappho, the author already embodies Cassandra. Each motion and movement on the page begets the next with such fluidity that I can’t help but want to read it again.

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