We have inherited from the Greeks a dangerous script: that the highest life is the pursuit of honor, the chase for competition, the hunger to be remembered. Achilles was their model — the warrior who chose a short life of glory over a long, quiet existence. But if we drag that script into our own age, it looks less like nobility and more like madness.
Imagine Achilles today. He would be an athlete, a sponsored star, the face of Nike, Red Bull, and Rolex. His battles would be world championships, his spear a tennis racket, his shield a racing bike. And his “honor” would mean winning at any cost — doping, overtraining, sacrificing health, relationships, even years of life. Fans would chant his name until the scandal broke. Then they would turn on him, hungry for the fall.
Is that honor? Is that worth dying for? Or is it simply slavery to the crowd?
The Greeks believed memory was immortality. To be sung by poets was to cheat death. But in a world of social media and streaming contracts, the same hunger becomes grotesque. A life burned away to entertain others, to rack up medals, to sell shoes. Glory in this sense is parasitic — it feeds on the body of the hero until nothing remains.
And what of competition itself? The Greek ideal assumes men need rivals, enemies, to measure their worth. But competition has no natural endpoint. Once you run faster, you must run faster still. Once you conquer one, you must conquer another. It is a treadmill disguised as a battlefield. Achilles’ script is not heroism — it is addiction.
Maybe the truer strength is not to compete but to step off the stage. Not to die for honor, but to live for clarity. To choose endurance over brilliance, presence over applause. Better to walk a quiet path with your child, with your breath steady, than to chase an ideal that eats men alive.
Achilles is not a hero to copy. He is a warning.