Whatever muse is singing in Berry to produce her lyrical writing, we’d like to lobby for their services. Army, and a Belgian orphan with a gorgeous voice and a devastating past. The gods are every inch what we remember them from classical mythology - Aphrodite, vivacious and erotic Ares, hot-tempered and cruel Hephaestus, gruff and slovenly - while taking on a literary elegance and lilting quality unique to Berry’s writing. A classical pianist from London, a British would-be architect-turned-soldier, a Harlem-born ragtime genius in the U.S. Yet Berry perfectly merges these two worlds, trading their togas for two-tone shoes and A-line dresses. It’s almost odd to imagine their capriciousness, their sense of justice, and their passion playing a role in something so epic and unendurably human as the first World War (and the second, for that matter). The most ordinary mortal bodies are housed by spectacular souls. We think of these mythic beings as belonging to a time long-past, their fickle natures and awe-inducing powers dictacting the lives of Odysseus, Perseus, Helen of Troy, Hector, and Achilles. This tradition - of the Greek gods telling stories of the mortals whose fates they hold in their hands - dates back centuries, and Berry makes it feel both timeless and startlingly fresh.
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