4 3 2 1 …..

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Βαρύ και ασήκωτο. Κυριολεκτώ. Διαβάζεται, όμως, απνευστί. Τουλάχιστον το ένα τρίτο που διάβασα μέχρι στιγμής. Τέσσερα παράλληλα μονοπάτια ζωής για τον Φέργκιουσον. Τέσσερις Φέργκιουσον που θα ζήσουν τέσσερις εντελώς διαφορετικές ζωές, όπως διαβάζουμε στο οπισθόφυλλο. Η τύχη των οικογενειών τους αποκλίνει. Οι έρωτες, οι φιλίες και τα πάθη τους είναι αντίθετα. Ωστόσο κάθε εκδοχή της ιστορίας του Φέργκιουσον διατρέχει το κατακερματισμένο πεδίο της Αμερικής των μέσων του 20ου αιώνα σε ένα μεγαλόπνοο μυθιστόρημα για το δικαίωμα στην ύπαρξη και τις ατελείωτες εκδοχές της, για την αγάπη και την πληρότητα της ζωής. «Πρωτότυπο και σύνθετο».

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Αθήνα….

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Ω χώματα της γης μου,

μύρια κι αξεχώριστα σαν τα νερά. Α.Σ

Καθώς προχωρούμε προς την άνοιξη, αυτά τα χώματα θαρρείς πως ομορφαίνουν πιότερο.

Της ημέρας….

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Γιώργος Ιακωβίδης, Άνοιξη 1927

Νέα μοίρα

Γυμνή γυναίκα

το ρόδι που έσπασε

ήταν γεμάτο αστέρια.

Γιώργος Σεφέρης χαϊκού. Γεννήθηκε σαν σήμερα το 1900

Sunset….

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The whole sky was a sheet of flame! It was as if Turner himself had come back to welcome him, to give him a last sunset before the end.

It was like watching a stained-glass window being slowly shattered.

— Lawrence Durrell, The Avignon Quintet

J.M.W. Turner, The Scarlet Sunset

….της θάλασσας

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Πόσες ιστορίες, αλήθεια, θα έχει να διηγηθεί, κι’ ας είναι ξεμοναχιασμένο, εκεί στην ακροθαλασσιά. Θαλασσινές ή ανθρώπων κουρασμένων που ξέμειναν από δυνάμεις. Μα ούτε κουβέντα στους βιαστικούς, που προσπερνούν αδιάφοροι. Τους αποφεύγει.

Bitter Lemons by Lawrence Durrell

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Cloudy, rainy weather. Winter ante portas. Hot coffee and the wonderful autobiographical book by Lawrence Durrell from the days he spent on Cyprus.

Bitter Lemons

By Lawrence Durrell

In an island of bitter lemons
Where the moon’s cool fevers burn
From the dark globes of the fruit,

And the dry grass underfoot
Tortures memory and revises
Habits half a lifetime dead

Better leave the rest unsaid,
Beauty, darkness, vehemence
Let the old sea-nurses keep

Their memorials of sleep
And the Greek sea’s curly head
Keep its calms like tears unshed

Keep its calms like tears unshed.

 

 

Writing about… «The Second Coming» by William Butler Yeats(13/6/1865–28/1/1939)

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W.B. Yeats 1907 by Augustus John OM 1878-1961

W.B. Yeats  by Augustus John OM , 1907

«Yeats began writing the poem in January 1919, in the wake of the First World War, the Russian Revolution, and political turmoil in his native Ireland. But the first stanza captures more than just political unrest and violence. Its anxiety concerns the social ills of modernity: the rupture of traditional family and societal structures; the loss of collective religious faith, and with it, the collective sense of purpose; the feeling that the old rules no longer apply and there’s nothing to replace them.»

“The Second Coming” is a magnificent statement about the contrary forces at work in history, and about the conflict between the modern world and the ancient world. Put in his own words:

The end of an age, which always receives the revelation of the character of the next age, is represented by the coming of one gyre to its place of greatest expansion and of the other to its place of greatest contraction… The revelation [that] approaches will… take its character from the contrary movement of the interior gyre…

The Second Coming

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

 

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?