The point of the story is that Paris gave the prize to Aphrodite, not because she bribed him, but because she was beautiful. After all, it was a contest in beauty, though Athena and Hera started a discussion about wisdom and power. It was they who tried to bribe him. They had their merits and they had arguments, but Aphrodite was the thing itself.
Helen came to the young man with a goblet of wine in her hand, and said:
"Who drinks of this wine, they say, forgets all his sorrows for ever. It comes from Egypt, where they know the secrets of herbs and drugs and charms, and there's a magic in it!"
He took it from her, his hand touched hers, and she smiled at him. It was as she had said; he forgot all his sorrows — as it seemed, for ever. But the magic, he knew, was not in the wine.
Menelaus was busy with his food on the other side of the table.
Postmodernists from Donald Barthelme to Haruki Murakami are following in the semi-surreal detached irony of Erskine's book. This book is a masterpiece. There's no other word for it. Plus there's no real sense in trying to "describe" it, since the tone is everything.
No descriptions found.
A fictionalisation of the secret life of Helen of Troy, the woman whose beauty caused the fabled Trojan War.