Rage.

Sing, O Muse, of the rage of Achilles, of Peleus’ son, murderous,
man-killer, fated to die, sing of the rage that cost the Achaeans so many
good men and sent so many vital, hearty souls down to the dreary House
of Death. And while you’re at it, Muse, sing of the rage of the gods
themselves, so petulant and so powerful here on their new Olympos, and
of the rage of the post-humans, dead and gone though they might be,
and of the rage of those few true humans left, self-absorbed and useless
though they have become. While you are singing, O Muse, sing also of
the rage of those thoughtful, sentient, serious but not-so-close-
to-human beings out there dreaming under the ice of Europa, dying in
the sulfur ash of Io, and being born in the cold folds of Ganymede.

Oh, and sing of me, O Muse, poor born-against-his-will Hockenberry,
dead Thomas Hockenberry, Ph.D., Hockenbush to his friends, to friends
long since turned to dust on a world long since left behind. Sing of my
rage, yes, of my rage, O Muse, small and insignificant though that rage
might be when measured against the anger of the immortal gods, or
when compared to the wrath of the god-killer Achilles.

On second though, O Muse, sing nothing of me. I know you. I have been
bound and servant to you, O Muse, you incomparable bitc*h. And I do not
trust you, O Muse. Not one little bit.

― Dan Simmons, Ilium