I never really liked Hercules. Okay, I liked the Kevin Sorbo series, but Hercules wasn't my favorite character, and Sorbo's Hercules wasn't the Greek Hercules, not really. There was something about Hercules I never liked. Maybe because he was so self-centered. Maybe because he killed horses. Maybe because I always liked Hera and wanted to take her side in everything. I don't know. I prefered Troy, Jason, Altanta, anything but Hercules.Winterson makes me feel something about Hercules, not like, though her character of Hercules is in fact Hercules. I haven't read Winterson before and picked this one because of its Canongate myth connection, so I'm not sure how much is autobiographic and how much is simply the narrative voice. In this book, Winterson takes the myth of Atlas and Hercules and weaves them together, past the temporially trading places. She turns the story into a study of life and of stories themselves. The weight of the stories that we carry with us or leave behind.It's one of those short books that is of great weight, of great importance because not only is there not a wasted word, but each word makes you think. Each word echoes the Greek tradition which it descends from. Poetic. Shocking. Human even in its gods.