And I saw Sisyphus too, bound to his own torture, grappling his monstrous boulder with both arms working, heaving, hands struggling, legs driving, he kept on thrusting the rock uphill toward the brink, but just as it teetered, set to topple over— time and again the immense weight of the thing would wheel it back and the ruthless boulder would bound and tumble down to the plain again— so once again he would heave, would struggle to thrust it up, sweat drenching his body, dust swirling above his head.

Agamemnon’s ghost kept pressing on, ‘so even your own wife—never indulge her too far. Never reveal the whole truth, whatever you may know; just tell her a part of it, be sure to hide the rest.