Cavafy Quotes

When you set sail for Ithaca, wish for the road to be long, full of adventures, full of knowledge.

وإن لم تستطع تشكيل حياتك كما تريد فحاول -على الأقل- بقدر ما تستطيع ألا تبتذلها بالاحتكاك الزائد بالعالم بالحركة والكلام الزائد حاول ألا تبتذلها بجرجرتها هنا وهناك بالطواف بها وتعريضها -كثيرًا- للسخافة اليومية للأحداث والحفلات الاجتماعية إلى أن تُصبح مثل عبٍ مُضجر

And if you can’t shape your life the way you want, at least try as much as you can not to degrade it...

Great writers, I discovered, were not to be bowed down before and worshipped, but embraced and befriended. Their names resounded through history not because they had massive brows and thought deep incomprehensible thoughts, but because they opened windows in the mind, they put their arms round you and showed you things you always knew but never dared to believe. Even if their names were terrifyingly foreign and intellectual sounding, Dostoevsky, Baudelaire or Cavafy, they turned out to be charming and wonderful and quite unalarming after all.

And if you find her poor, Ithaca has not deceived you. Wise as you have become, with so much experience, you must already have understood what these Ithacas mean.

to certain people there comes a day when they must say the great Yes or the great No...

Επιθυμίες Σαν σώματα ωραία νεκρών που δεν εγέρασαν και τάκλεισαν, με δάκρυα, σε μαυσωλείο λαμπρό, με ρόδα στο κεφάλι και στα πόδια γιασεμιά -- έτσ' η επιθυμίες μοιάζουν που επέρασαν χωρίς να εκπληρωθούν· χωρίς ν' αξιωθεί καμιά της ηδονής μια νύχτα, ή ένα πρωϊ της φεγγερό." Desires "Like beautiful bodies of the dead who had not grown old and they shut them, with tears, in a brilliant mausoleum, with roses at the head and jasmine at the feet -- this is what desires resemble that have passed without fulfillment; without any of them having achieved a night of sensual delight, or a morning of brightness.

Have Ithaka always in your mind. Your arrival there is what you are destined for. But don't in the least hurry the journey.

You will always end up in this city. Don’t hope for things elsewhere: there is no ship for you, there is no road. As you’ve wasted your life here, in this small corner, you’ve destroyed it everywhere else in the world

Ithaka As you set out for Ithaka hope the voyage is a long one, full of adventure, full of discovery. Laistrygonians and Cyclops, angry Poseidon—don’t be afraid of them: you’ll never find things like that on your way as long as you keep your thoughts raised high, as long as a rare excitement stirs your spirit and your body. Laistrygonians and Cyclops, wild Poseidon—you won’t encounter them unless you bring them along inside your soul, unless your soul sets them up in front of you. Hope the voyage is a long one. May there be many a summer morning when, with what pleasure, what joy, you come into harbors seen for the first time; may you stop at Phoenician trading stations to buy fine things, mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony, sensual perfume of every kind— as many sensual perfumes as you can; and may you visit many Egyptian cities to gather stores of knowledge from their scholars. Keep Ithaka always in your mind. Arriving there is what you are destined for. But do not hurry the journey at all. Better if it lasts for years, so you are old by the time you reach the island, wealthy with all you have gained on the way, not expecting Ithaka to make you rich. Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey. Without her you would not have set out. She has nothing left to give you now. And if you find her poor, Ithaka won’t have fooled you. Wise as you will have become, so full of experience, you will have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.

Άλλα ζητεί η ψυχή σου, γι’ άλλα κλαίει·

Don’t mourn your luck that’s failing now, work gone wrong, your plans all proving deceptive — don’t mourn them uselessly. As one long prepared, and graced with courage, say goodbye to her, the Alexandria that is leaving. Above all, don’t fool yourself, don’t say it was a dream, your ears deceived you: don’t degrade yourself with empty hopes like these.

And if you can’t shape your life the way you want, at least try as much as you can not to degrade it by too much contact with the world, by too much activity and talk. Try not to degrade it by dragging it along, taking it around and exposing it so often to the daily silliness of social events and parties, until it comes to seem a boring hanger-on.

I have gazed so much on beauty that my eyes overflow with it.

Days to come stand in front of us like a row of lighted candles— golden, warm, and vivid candles. Days gone by fall behind us, a gloomy line of snuffed-out candles; the nearest are smoking still, cold, melted, and bent. I don’t want to look at them: their shape saddens me, and it saddens me to remember their original light. I look ahead at my lighted candles. I don’t want to turn for fear of seeing, terrified, how quickly that dark line gets longer, how quickly the snuffed-out candles proliferate.

And now, what will become of us without the barbarians? Those people were a kind of solution.

At least let me now deceive myself with illusions so as not to feel my empty life. And yet I came so close so many times. And yet how paralyzed I was, how cowardly; why did I keep my lips sealed while my empty life wept inside me, my desires wore robes of mourning? To have been so close so many times to those sensual eyes, those lips, to that body I dreamed of, loved. To have been so close so many times. September 1903

The days of the future stand in fornt of us Like a line of candles all alight Golden and warm and lively little candles The days that are past are left behind

And now, what’s going to happen to us without barbarians? They were, those people, a kind of solution.

You said, "I will go to another land, I will go to another sea. Another city will be found, better than this. Every effort of mine is condemned by fate; and my heart is-like a corpse-buried. How long in this wasteland will my mind remain. Wherever I turn my eyes, wherever I may look I see the black ruins of my life here, where I spent so many years, and ruined and wasted." New lands you will not find, you will not find other seas. The city will follow you. You will roam the same streets. And you will age in the same neighborhoods; in these same houses you will grow gray. Always you will arrive in this city. To another land-do not hope- there is no ship for you, there is no road. As you have ruined your life here in this little corner, you have destroyed it in the whole world.2

In these dark rooms I pass such listless days, I wander up and down looking for the windows - when a window opens there will be some relief. But there are no windows, or at least I cannot find them. And perhaps it's just as well. Perhaps the light would prove another torment. Who knows what new things it would reveal? ("The Windows")

أيامنا القادمة تقف أمامنا مثل صف من الشموع ذهبية ودافئة، ومفعمة بالحياة أيامنا الماضية تذوي خلفنا، صفاً من الشموع المحترقة، ... ما يزال الدخان ينبعث من أقربها، شموع باردة، خامدة، ومحنية. لا أريد أن أنظر إليها فيتملكنى الرعب عندما أرى الصف المظلم يمتد والشموع المطفأة يتزايد عددها .

Hope the voyage is a long one, full of adventure, full of discovery.

Anyway, those things would not have lasted long. The experience of the years shows it to me. But Destiny arrived in some haste and stopped them. The beautiful life was brief. But how potent were the perfumes, On how splendid a bed we lay, To what sensual delight we gave our bodies. An echo of the days of pleasure, An echo of the days drew near me, A little of the fire of the youth of both of us, Again I took in my hands a letter, And I read and reread till the light was gone. And melancholy, I came out on the balcony Came out to change my thoughts at least by looking at A little of the city that I loved, A little movement on the street and in the shops. Translated by Rae Dalven

Η Ιθάκη σ’ έδωσε τ’ ωραίο ταξείδι. Χωρίς αυτήν δεν θάβγαινες στον δρόμο.

عندما تتهيأ للرحيل إلى إيثاكا، تمنّ أن يكون الطريق طويلًا، حافلًا بالمغامرات، عامرًا بالمعرفة لا تخش الليستريجونات والسيكلوبات ولا بوسايدون الهائج لن تجد أبدًا أيًا من هؤلاء في طريقك إن بقي فكرك ساميًا، إن مست عاطفة نبيلة روحك وجسدك، لن تقابل الليستريجونات والسيكلوبات ولا بوزايدون العاتي، إن لم تحملهم في روحك، إن لم تستحضرهم روحك قدامك تمنّ أن يكون الطريق طويلاً، أن تكون صباحات الصيف عديدة، فتدخل المرافئ التي ترى لأول مرة، منشرحًا، جذلًا توقف بالأسواق الفينيقية، واقتن السلع الجيدة، أصدافًا ومرجانًا، كهرمانًا وأبنوسًا، وعطورا شهوانية من كل نوع، قدر ما يمكن من العطور الشهوانية، اذهب إلى كثير من المدن المصرية، تعلم، وتعلم ثانية، من الحكماء لتكن إيثاكا في روحك دائما الوصول إليها قدرك لكن لا تتعجل انتهاء الرحلة الأفضل أن تدوم سنوات طويلة وأن تكون شيخا حين تبلغ الجزيرة ثريا بما كسبته في الطريق، غير آمل أن تهبك ايثاكا ثراء إيثاكا منحتك الرحلة الجميلة لولاها ما كنت شددت الرحال وليس لديها ما تمنحك إياه أكثر من ذلك حتى وإن بدت لك ايثاكا فقيرة، فإنها لم تخدعك. ومادمت قد صرت حكيما، حائزا كل هذه الخبرة، فلا ريب أنك قد فهمت ما تعنيه الايثاكات.

If you cannot fashion your life as you would like, endeavour to do this at least, as much as you can: do not trivialize it through too much contact with the world, through too much activity and chatter. Do not trivialize your life by parading it, running around and displaying it in the daily stupidity of cliques and gatherings until it becomes like a tiresome guest. ("As Much As You Can")

Distinguishing Marks Every land has its distinguishing mark. Particular to Thessaly are horsemanship and horses; what marks a Spartan is war's season; Media has its tables with their dishes; hair marks the Celts, the Assyrians have beards. But the marks that distinguish Athens are Mankind and the Word.

From all I did and all I said let no one try to find out who I was. An obstacle was there that changed the pattern of my actions and the manner of my life. An obstacle was often there to stop me when I’d begin to speak. From my most unnoticed actions, my most veiled writing— from these alone will I be understood.

As one long prepared, and graced with courage, as is right for you who were given this kind of city, go firmly to the window and listen with deep emotion, but not with the whining, the pleas of a coward; listen—your final delectation—to the voices, to the exquisite music of that strange procession, and say goodbye to her, to the Alexandria you are losing.

What happened? It took Gibbon six volumes to describe the decline and fall of the Roman Empire, so I shan’t embark on that. But thinking about this almost incredible episode does tell one something about the nature of civilisation. It shows that however complex and solid it seems, it is actually quite fragile. It can be destroyed. 

What are its enemies?
 
Well, first of all fear — fear of war, fear of invasion, fear of plague and famine, that make it simply not worthwhile constructing things, or planting trees or even planning next year’s crops. And fear of the supernatural, which means that you daren’t question anything or change anything. The late antique world was full of meaningless rituals, mystery religions, that destroyed self-confidence. And then exhaustion, the feeling of hopelessness which can overtake people even with a high degree of material prosperity. 

There is a poem by the modern Greek poet, Cavafy, in which he imagines the people of an antique town like Alexandria waiting every day for the barbarians to come and sack the city. Finally the barbarians move off somewhere else and the city is saved; but the people are disappointed — it would have been better than nothing. Of course, civilisation requires a modicum of material prosperity—

What civilization needs:

confidence in the society in which one lives, belief in its philosophy, belief in its laws, and confidence in one’s own mental powers. The way in which the stones of the Pont du Gard are laid is not only a triumph of technical skill, but shows a vigorous belief in law and discipline. Vigour, energy, vitality: all the civilisations—or civilising epochs—have had a weight of energy behind them. People sometimes think that civilisation consists in fine sensibilities and good conversations and all that. These can be among the agreeable results of civilisation, but they are not what make a civilisation, and a society can have these amenities and yet be dead and rigid.

Desires Like the beautiful bodies of those who died young, tearfully interred in a grand mausoleum with roses by their heads and jasmine at their feet – so seem those desires that have passed without fulfilment; without a single night of pleasure, or one of its radiant mornings.

Without compunction, pity or shame, they've built towering walls around me. Desperate, I sit and think one thing: alone here this fate confounds me. For there were many things I'd hoped to do out there. With all the construction, how was I not aware? Yet the crack and clang of hammers I never once heard. Imperceptibly they've confined me from the outside world. ("Walls")

He Vows Every now and then he vows to live a better life. But when night comes with her own counsels, with her promises and her compromises, when night comes with her power over the body that seeks and yearns, he returns, lost, to the same fatal pleasures.

The god abandons Antony When at the hour of midnight an invisible choir is suddenly heard passing with exquisite music, with voices ― Do not lament your fortune that at last subsides, your life’s work that has failed, your schemes that have proved illusions. But like a man prepared, like a brave man, bid farewell to her, to Alexandria who is departing. Above all, do not delude yourself, do not say that it is a dream, that your ear was mistaken. Do not condescend to such empty hopes. Like a man for long prepared, like a brave man, like the man who was worthy of such a city, go to the window firmly, and listen with emotion but not with the prayers and complaints of the coward (Ah! supreme rapture!) listen to the notes, to the exquisite instruments of the mystic choir, and bid farewell to her, to Alexandria whom you are losing.

Σα βγεις στον πηγαιμό για την Ιθάκη, να εύχεσαι νάναι μακρύς ο δρόμος, γεμάτος περιπέτειες, γεμάτος γνώσεις. Τους Λαιστρυγόνας και τους Κύκλωπας, τον θυμωμένο Ποσειδώνα μη φοβάσαι, τέτοια στον δρόμο σου ποτέ σου δεν θα βρεις, αν μέν’ η σκέψις σου υψηλή, αν εκλεκτή συγκίνησις το πνεύμα και το σώμα σου αγγίζει. Τους Λαιστρυγόνας και τους Κύκλωπας, τον άγριο Ποσειδώνα δεν θα συναντήσεις, αν δεν τους κουβανείς μες στην ψυχή σου, αν η ψυχή σου δεν τους στήνει εμπρός σου. Να εύχεσαι νάναι μακρύς ο δρόμος. Πολλά τα καλοκαιρινά πρωιά να είναι που με τι ευχαρίστησι, με τι χαρά θα μπαίνεις σε λιμένας πρωτοειδωμένους· να σταματήσεις σ’ εμπορεία Φοινικικά, και τες καλές πραγμάτειες ν’ αποκτήσεις, σεντέφια και κοράλλια, κεχριμπάρια κ’ έβενους, και ηδονικά μυρωδικά κάθε λογής, όσο μπορείς πιο άφθονα ηδονικά μυρωδικά· σε πόλεις Aιγυπτιακές πολλές να πας, να μάθεις και να μάθεις απ’ τους σπουδασμένους. Πάντα στον νου σου νάχεις την Ιθάκη. Το φθάσιμον εκεί είν’ ο προορισμός σου. Aλλά μη βιάζεις το ταξείδι διόλου. Καλλίτερα χρόνια πολλά να διαρκέσει· και γέρος πια ν’ αράξεις στο νησί, πλούσιος με όσα κέρδισες στον δρόμο, μη προσδοκώντας πλούτη να σε δώσει η Ιθάκη. Η Ιθάκη σ’ έδωσε τ’ ωραίο ταξείδι. Χωρίς αυτήν δεν θάβγαινες στον δρόμο. Άλλα δεν έχει να σε δώσει πια. Κι αν πτωχική την βρεις, η Ιθάκη δεν σε γέλασε. Έτσι σοφός που έγινες, με τόση πείρα, ήδη θα το κατάλαβες η Ιθάκες τι σημαίνουν.

....night is here but the barbarians have not come. And some people arrived from the borders, and said that there are no longer any barbarians. And now what shall become of us without any barbarians? Those people were some kind of solution.

As you set out on your journey to Ithaca, pray that your journey be a long one, filled with adventure, filled with discovery. Laestrygonians and Cyclopes, the angry Poseidon--do not fear them: you'll never find such things on your way unless your sight is set high, unless a rare excitement stirs your spirit and your body. The Laestrygonians and Cyclopes, the savage Poseidon--you won't meet them so long as you do not admit them to your soul, as long as your soul does not set them before you. Pray that your road is a long one. May there be many summer mornings when with what pleasure, with what joy, you enter harbors never seen before. May you stop at Phoenician stations of trade to buy fine things, mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony, and voluptuous perfumes of every kind-- buy as many voluptuous perfumes as you can. And may you go to many Egyptian cities to learn and learn from those who know. Always keep Ithaca in your mind. You are destined to arrive there. But don't hurry your journey at all. Far better if it takes many years, and if you are old when you anchor at the island, rich with all you have gained on the way, not expecting that Ithaca will give you wealth. Ithaca has given you a beautiful journey. Without her you would never have set out. She has no more left to give you. And if you find her poor, Ithaca has not mocked you. As wise as you have become, so filled with experience, you will have understood what these Ithacas signify.

che feche...il gran rifiuto

Pray that the summer mornings are many when with such pleasure, with such joy you will enter ports seen for the first time

Ο ανύπαντρος ζει σαν άνθρωπος και πεθαίνει σαν σκύλος. Ο παντρεμένος ζει σαν σκύλος και πεθαίνει σαν άνθρωπος...

He came to read; two or three books are lying open: history and poetry. But after just ten minutes of reading he lets them drop. There on the sofa he falls asleep. He truly is devoted to reading- but he is twenty-three years old, and very handsome. And just this afternoon, Eros surged within his perfect limbs and on his lips. Into his beautiful flesh came the heat of passion, and there was no foolish embarrassment about the form that pleasure took..

You said: “I’ll go to another country, go to another shore, find another city better than this one. Whatever I try to do is fated to turn out wrong and my heart lies buried as though it were something dead. How long can I let my mind moulder in this place? Wherever I turn, wherever I happen to look, I see the black ruins of my life, here, where I’ve spent so many years, wasted them, destroyed them totally.” You won’t find a new country, won’t find another shore. This city will always pursue you. You will walk the same streets, grow old in the same neighborhoods, will turn gray in these same houses. You will always end up in this city. Don’t hope for things elsewhere: there is no ship for you, there is no road. As you’ve wasted your life here, in this small corner, you’ve destroyed it everywhere else in the world.

And if you can't shape your life the way you want, at least try as much as you can not to degrade it by too much contact with the world, by too much activity and talk. Try not to degrade it by dragging it along, taking it around and exposing it so often to the daily silliness of social events and parties, until it comes to seem a boring hanger-on.

I'll go to another country, go to another shore, find another city better than this one. Whatever I try to do is fated to turn out wrong and my heart -like something dead- lies buried. How long can I let my mind moulder in this place? Wherever I turn, wherever I look, I see the black ruins of my life, here, where I've spent so many years, wasted them, destroyed them totally." You won't find a new country, won't find another shore. This city will always pursue you. You'll walk the same streets, grow old in the same neighbourhoods, turn grey in these same houses. You'll always end up in this city. Don't hope for things elsewhere: there's no ship for you, there's no road. Now that you've wasted your life here, in this small corner, you've destroyed it everywhere in the world.

He said he'd hurt himself against a wall or had fallen down. But there was probably some other reason for the wounded, the bandaged shoulder. With a rather abrupt gesture, reaching for a shelf to bring down some photographs he wanted to look at, the bandage came came undone and a little blood ran. I did it up again, taking my time over the binding; he wasn't in pain and I liked looking at the blood. It was a thing of my love, that blood. When he left, I found, in front of his chair, a bloody rag, part of the dressing, a rag to be thrown straight into the garbage; and I put it to my lips and kept it there a long while- the blood of love against my lips.

You won’t find a new country, won’t find another shore. This city will always pursue you. You will walk the same streets, grow old in the same neighborhoods, will turn gray in these same houses. You will always end up in this city. Don’t hope for things elsewhere: there is no ship for you, there is no road. As you’ve wasted your life here, in this small corner, you’ve destroyed it everywhere else in the world.

SETI SE, TELO... Telo, seti se ne samo koliko si bilo voljeno, ne jedino kreveta na kojima si ležalo, nego i onih želja, koja su zbog tebe iskrile u onim jasnim očima i drhtale u glasu – a neka ih je slučajna prepreka osujetila. Sada, kad je sve to već u prošlosti, izgleda skoro kao da si se onim željama i predavalo – kako su iskrile, seti se, u očima što su te gledale: kako su drhtale u glasu zbog tebe, seti se, telo.

Before Jerusalem Now they've come before Jerusalem. Passions, avarice, and ambition, as well as their chivalrous pride have swiftly slipped from their souls. Now they've come before Jerusalem. In their ecstasy and their devoutness they've forgotten their quarrels with the Greeks; they've forgotten their hatred of the Turks. Now they've come before Jerusalem. And the Crusaders, so daring and invincible, so vehement in their every march and onslaught, are fearful and nervous and are unable to go further; they tremble like small children, and like small children weep, all weep, as they behold the walls of Jerusalem.

Return" Return often and take me, beloved sensation, return and take me -- when the memory of the body awakens, and an old desire runs again through the blood; when the lips and the skin remember, and the hands feel as if they touch again. Return often and take me at night, when the lips and the skin remember...

— Τι περιμένουμε στην αγορά συναθροισμένοι; Είναι οι βάρβαροι να φθάσουν σήμερα.

Vuelve a menudo y tómame, en la noche, cuando los labios y la piel recuerdan...

Yo bebí un vino fuerte, como sólo el audaz bebe el placer.

I have seen the absolute black; it was unspeakably beautiful.

Dost olmasak da. Ama bu dilek yeter. Belki de çok bile.

... Bir ikindi saat dörtte ayrıldık, yalnız bir haftalığına... Ah, ah, bir türlü sona ermedi o hafta.

Katharevousa savored, then, of official culture, the classical past, and high art. (To Forster, it “has tried to revive the classical tradition, and only succeeds in being dull.”)

Memory, keep those eyes just as they were. / And memory, whatever you can salvage of that passion of mine, / whatever you can, bring back to me tonight.

I have fashioned you in joy and in sorrow, / through so many happenings, out of so many things.

You’ve been wholly transformed into feeling, for me.

Here, listen to this; a poem by a Greek who lived in Alexandria, one Cavafy: “You said, ‘I shall go to another land to another sea Another city will be found better than this. My every effort is a written indictment And my heart—like the dead—is buried. How long will my mind be in this decay,’ “and so on like that, it’s the same old song we know so well—if only I were somewhere else, I would be happy. Until the poet replies to his poor friend, “New lands you will not find, you won’t find other seas. The city will follow you. The streets you roam will be the same. There is no boat for you, there is no street. In the same way your life you destroyed here In this petty corner, you have spoiled it in the entire universe.

Powiedziałeś: "Pojadę do innej ziemi, nad morze inne. Jakieś inne znajdzie się miasto, jakieś lepsze miejsce. Tu już wydany jest wyrok na wszystkie moje dążenia i pogrzebane leży, jak w grobie, moje serce. Niechby się umysł wreszcie podźwignął z odrętwienia. Tu, cokolwiek wzrokiem ogarnę, ruiny mego życia czarne widzę, gdziem tyle lat przeżył, stracił, roztrwonił". Nowych nie znajdziesz krain ani innego morza. To miasto pójdzie za tobą. Zawsze w tych samych dzielnicach będziesz krążył. W tych samych domach włosy ci posiwieją. Zawsze trafisz do tego miasta. Będziesz chodził po tych samych ulicach. Nie ma dla ciebie okrętu - nie ufaj próżnym nadziejom - nie ma drogi w inną stronę. Jakeś swoje życie roztrwonił w tym ciasnym kącie, tak je w całym świecie roztrwoniłeś.

I will not fear my passions, like a coward; I will give my body entirely to pleasure, to dreamed-of joys, the most brazen erotic desires, the most depraved passions in my blood, all without fear.

What matters to Cavafy, and what so often gives his work both its profound sympathy and its rich irony, is the understanding, which as he knew so well comes too late to too many, that however fervently we may act in the dramas of our lives—emperors, lovers, magicians, scholars, pagans, Christians, catamites, stylites, artists, saints, poets—only time reveals whether the play is a tragedy or a comedy.

The City" You said, “I will go to another land, I will go to another sea. Another city will be found, a better one than this. Every effort of mine is a condemnation of fate; and my heart is — like a corpse — buried. How long will my mind remain in this wasteland. Wherever I turn my eyes, wherever I may look I see black ruins of my life here, where I spent so many years destroying and wasting.” You will find no new lands, you will find no other seas. The city will follow you. You will roam the same streets. And you will age in the same neighborhoods; and you will grow gray in these same houses. Always you will arrive in this city. Do not hope for any other — There is no ship for you, there is no road. As you have destroyed your life here in this little corner, you have ruined it in the entire world.

Morning Sea Let me stop right here. Let me, too, have a look at nature: the morning sea and the cloudless sky, both a luminous blue, the yellow shore, all of it beautiful, and in such magnificent light. Let me stop right here. Let me pretend this is actually what I’m seeing (I really did see it, when I first stopped) and not, here too, more of those fantasies of mine, more of those memories, those voluptuous illusions.

Done Amid fear and suspicion, with startled minds and frightened eyes, we pine and scheme over what steps to take to avoid the certain danger that threatens us so horribly. Yet we are wrong. This was not the danger in store; the portents were false (or we never heard them, or failed to construe them properly). It’s some other disaster, precipitous, violent, one we hadn’t imagined, that suddenly takes us unawares, and – there’s no time now – overcomes us.

I allowed no restraint. I gave in completely and left. / I ran toward pleasures that were half real and half spun by my own mind. / I ran in the radiant night / and drank down strong wines, the kind / that champions of pleasure drink.

do not hurry the journey at all: better that it lasts for many years and you arrive an old man on the island, rich from all that you have gained on the way, not counting on Ithaca for riches. For Ithaca gave you the splendid voyage: without her you would never have embarked. She has nothing more to give you now. And though you find her poor, she has not misled you; you having grown so wise, so experienced from your travels, by then you will have learned what Ithacas mean.

Remember, Body… Body, remember not only how deeply you were loved, not only the many beds where you lay, but also those desires that flashed openly in their eyes or trembled in the voice – and were thwarted by some chance impediment. Now that all of them are locked away in the past, it almost seems as if you surrendered to even those pre-empted desires – how they flashed, remember, in the eyes of those who looked at you, how they trembled in the voice for you, remember, body.

It is one of the talents of great stylists to make obsolete words cease from appearing obsolete through the way in which they introduce them in their writing. Obsolete words which under the pens of others would seem stilted or out of place, occur most naturally under theirs. This is owing to the tact & judgment of the writers who know when--& when only—the disused term can be introduced, when it is artistically agreeable or linguistically necessary; & of course then the obsolete word becomes obsolete only in name. It is recalled into existence by the natural requirements of a powerful or subtle style. It is not a corpse disinterred (as with less skillful writers) but a beautiful body awaked from a long & refreshing sleep.

On hearing about powerful love, respond, be moved like an aesthete. Only, fortunate as you’ve been, remember how much your imagination created for you. This first, and then the rest—the lesser loves— that you experienced and enjoyed in your life: the more real and tangible. Of loves like these you were not deprived — C.P. Cavafy, “Hearing of Love,” Collected Poems. Translated by Edmund Keeley & Philip Sherrard. Edited by George Savidis. Revised Edition. (Princeton University Press 1992)

And now in a faint the miserable Lares, burrow in the depth of the shrine, one tumbles and stumbles upon the other, one little god falls over the other for they understand what sort of clamor this is, they are already feeling the footsteps of the Furies.

But the old mirror that during all the many years / of its existence had looked upon / thousands of objects and faces, / the old mirror was happy now, / filled with the satisfaction that it had received, / if only for a few minutes, beauty in all its perfection.

Honor to those who in the life they lead define and guard a Thermopylae. Never betraying what is right, consistent and just in all they do but showing pity also, and compassion; generous when they are rich, and when they are poor, still generous in small ways, still helping as much as they can; always speaking the truth, yet without hating those who lie. And even more honor is due to them when they foresee (as many do foresee) that in the end Ephialtis will make his appearance, that the Medes will break through after all.

Return often and take me, beloved sensation, return and take me – when the body’s memory awakens, and old longings pulse again in my blood, when lips and skin remember, and hands could almost touch again. Return often and take me at night, when lips and skin remember.

What are we waiting for, assembled in the forum? The barbarians are due here today. Why isn't anything happening in the senate? Why do the senators sit there without legislating? Because the barbarians are coming today. What laws can the senators make now? Once the barbarians are here, they'll do the legislating. Why did our emperor get up so early, and why is he sitting at the city's main gate on his throne, in state, wearing the crown? Because the barbarians are coming today and the emperor is waiting to receive their leader. He has even prepared a scroll to give him, replete with titles, with imposing names. Why have our two consuls and praetors come out today wearing their embroidered, their scarlet togas? Why have they put on bracelets with so many amethysts, and rings sparkling with magnificent emeralds? Why are they carrying elegant canes beautifully worked in silver and gold? Because the barbarians are coming today and things like that dazzle the barbarians. Why don't our distinguished orators come forward as usual to make their speeches, say what they have to say? Because the barbarians are coming today and they're bored by rhetoric and public speaking. Why this sudden restlessness, this confusion? (How serious people's faces have become.) Why are the streets and squares emptying so rapidly, everyone going home so lost in thought? Because night has fallen and the barbarians have not come. And some who have just returned from the border say there are no barbarians any longer. And now, what's going to happen to us without barbarians? They were, those people, a kind of solution

Ithaca gave you the beautiful journey. Without her you would not have set out. She has nothing more to give you. And if you find her poor, Ithaca has not fooled you. Having become so wise, with so much experience, You will have understood, by then, what these Ithacas mean.

Wymarzone, ukochane głosy tych, co umarli, albo tych, co dla nas tak są straceni, jak umarli. Czasem do nas przemawiają w snach czasem je w zadumaniu słyszy umysł. A z ich brzmieniem powraca na chwilę dźwięki najpierwszej naszego życia poezji, jak muzyka, która nocą, gdzieś w dali, dogasa.

Old Men’s Souls Within their ancient, decrepit bodies the souls of old men wallow. Poor things, so full of sorrow: how bored with the wretched life they bear, yet how they cherish it and how they fear its loss, these contrary and befuddled souls, tragicomically huddled inside their ancient, desiccated hides.

What he timidly imagined in his school days, is opened up, revealed to him. And he makes the rounds, stays out all night, gets swept up in things. And as is (for our art) only right, pleasure rejoices in his fresh, hot blood, an outlaw sensual abandon overcomes his body; and his youthful limbs give in to it.

Monotony One monotonous day follows another monotonous day, without change. The same things happen, then happen again. The same moments approach, then grow distant. A month passes and brings another month. Anyone can guess what’s coming after: all the tedious events from the day before, until tomorrow looks nothing like tomorrow.

The Windows In these dark rooms where I pass such listless days, I wander up and down looking for the windows – when a window opens there will be some relief. But there are no windows, or at least I cannot find them. And perhaps it’s just as well. Perhaps the light would prove another torment. Who knows what new things it would reveal?

THE WINDOWS Within these dark chambers, where I live through oppressive days, I pace up and down, trying to find the windows.-When a window opens, it will be a consolation. But the windows are not to be found, or I am unable to find them. And perhaps it's better that I don't. Perhaps the light will be a new tyranny. Who knows what novel things it will reveal.

Wśród lęku i podejrzeń, z zamętem w myślach, z trwogą w oczach, rozpaczliwie szukamy jakichkolwiek sposobów, aby uniknąć oczywistej grozy, która jest tuż przed nami. A jednak się mylimy: nie ma jej na drodze. Wieści kłamały (a może ich nie było albośmy ich nie pojęli). Zupełnie inna klęska, nigdy nie przeczuwana, nagle jak burza na nas spada i nie przygotowanych — a czasu już brak — zagarnia.

What a misfortune, although you are made for fine and great works this unjust fate of yours always denies you encouragement and success; that base customs should block you; and pettiness and indifference. And how terrible the day when you yield (the day when you give up and yield), and you leave on foot for Susa, and you go to the monarch Artaxerxes who favorably places you in his court, and offers you satrapies and the like. And you accept them with despair these things that you do not want. Your soul seeks other things, weeps for other things; the praise of the public and the Sophists, the hard-won and inestimable Well Done; the Agora, the Theater, and the Laurels. How can Artaxerxes give you these, where will you find these in a satrapy; and what life can you live without these.

You said: “I’ll go to another country, go to another shore, find another city better than this one. Whatever I try to do is fated to turn out wrong and my heart lies buried like something dead. How long can I let my mind moulder in this place? Wherever I turn, wherever I look, I see the black ruins of my life, here, where I’ve spent so many years, wasted them, destroyed them totally.” You won’t find a new country, won’t find another shore. This city will always pursue you. You’ll walk the same streets, grow old in the same neighborhoods, turn gray in these same houses. You’ll always end up in this city. Don’t hope for things elsewhere: there’s no ship for you, there’s no road. Now that you’ve wasted your life here, in this small corner, you’ve destroyed it everywhere in the world.

Walls Without reflection, without mercy, without shame, they built strong walls and high, and compassed me about. And now I sit here and consider and despair. My brain is worn with meditating on my fate: I had outside so many things to terminate. Oh! why when they were building did I not beware! But never a sound of building, never an echo came. Out of the world, insensibly, they shut me out.

And if you can’t make your life as you’d wish it, try, at the very least, to accomplish this much: do not make it less than what it already is by mixing too excessively with the masses, by hanging around and endlessly chattering. Don’t cheapen your life by parading it around, hauling it everywhere and laying it out there for the dreary humbug of familiars and fellowship, until it comes to feel like a curious dead weight.

Below the House Yesterday while strolling through a neighborhood on the edge of town, I passed below the house I used to go in when I was very young. There Eros had taken possession of my body with his exquisite force. And yesterday as I passed along that ancient street, suddenly everything was made beautiful by desire’s spell: the shops, the pavements, the stones, and walls, and balconies, and windows; there was nothing ugly that remained there.

Esto era lo que había en él de singular: que en medio de toda su vida disoluta y de su mucha experiencia en el amor, a pesar de la habitual armonía entre su actitud y su edad, había algunos instantes -pero muy raros ciertamente- en que daba la impresión de una carne casi intacta. La hermosura de sus veintinueve años, tan probada en el placer, había momentos en que paradojalmente recordaba a un adolescente que -con cierta torpeza- al amor por primera vez su cuerpo puro entrega.

Painted Things I love my work and take pains with it. But today I find the slow pace of composition discouraging. The weather has got into me. It just gets darker and darker. Non-stop wind and rain. I’d rather watch than write. I’m looking at this painting now: it shows a handsome boy lying near a spring, out of breath from running. Such a beautiful boy! And such a divine noon which has taken him and induced him to sleep! I sit and gaze like this for a long time. Immersed again in art, I recover from the labour of creating it.

Had You Loved Me If a shining ray of love should warm the darkness of my life the first throb of my grief-stricken soul would be a happy rhapsody. I do not dare to whisper what I wish to tell you; that to live without you is an unbearable penalty for me. Had you loved me...but alas, this is a deceptive hope! Had you loved me I would see the end of tears and hidden pains. Indeed the guileful hesitations would no longer dare to show their crafty face. You would be found amid divine visions. Rose blossoms would have adorned the bramble of life. Had you loved me...but alas, this is a deceptive hope.

The Footsteps On an ebony bedstead adorned with eagles made of coral, Nero lies deep in sleep – quiet, unconscious, happy: in the prime of his body’s vigour; in the beautiful ardour of his youth. But in the alabaster hall that holds the ancient shrine of the Ahenobarbi, the Lares of his house are anxious. These minor household gods are trembling, trying to conceal their already negligible bodies. For they heard a terrible noise, a deadly sound spiralling up the staircase, iron-soled footsteps shaking the steps. The miserable Lares, near-fainting now, huddle in the corner of the shrine, jostling and stumbling over each other, one little god falling over the next, for they knew what sort of noise it was; they recognize, by now, the footsteps of the Furies.

One of Their Gods When one of them passed through the forum of Seleucia just as night began to fall, young, tall, perfect in his beauty, with the joy of imperishability in his eyes and his aromatic black hair, the passers-by would stare, asking each other if they knew the man: was he a Greek from Syria, or a foreigner? But some, who watched with greater attention, understood and drew aside for him to pass; and as he vanished under the arcades, amid the shadow and light of evening, proceeding to that neighbourhood which comes alive only at night, with orgies and debauchery, every kind of drunkenness and lust, they wondered which of Them he might be, and for which of his suspect passions had he come down to the streets of Seleucia from the Venerable and Sacred Abodes.

The Tomb of Lanes Marcus, the Lanes whom you loved is not here in this tomb where you visit and weep for hours. The Lanes whom you loved is nearer, Marcus, when you close yourself in your room and gaze on his portrait; that image preserved all that was worthy in him; that image preserved all that you loved. Do you remember, Marcus, when you brought from the proconsul’s palace the famous painter from Cyrene, and as soon as he laid eyes on your friend, he tried to persuade you with his artist’s cunning that he should draw him, without question, as Hyacinth (that way the portrait would garner more fame)? But your Lanes didn’t put his beauty on loan like that; firmly opposing the man, he demanded to be portrayed not as Hyacinth, nor as anyone else, but as Lanes, son of Rhametichus, an Alexandrian.

VLADAR IZ ZAPADNE LIBIJE Uglavnom se svideo u Aleksandriji, za tih deset dana svoga boravka, Menelajev sin Arispomen, vladar iz zapadne Libije. Kao ime, i odeća mu, uljudno, helenska. Rado je prihvatio počasti, ali ih nije tražio: bio je skroman. Kupovao je helenske knjige, mahom iz istorije i filosofije. Iznad svega, bio je škrt na rečima. Mora da je dubokih misli, govorilo se, a prirodno je što takvi ne pričaju suviše. Nije bio dubokih misli, niti čega drugog. Sasvim običan, smešan čovek. Uzeo je helensko ime, odevao se poput Helena, a naučio je, manje-više, i da se ponaša kao Heleni. U duši je strepeo da slučajno ne pokvari povoljan utisak ako govori helenski sa strašnim varvarizmima, a Aleksandrinci bi ga otkrili, već po svom običaju, nesrećnici. Stoga se ograničio na malo reči, pazeći sa strahom na padeže i na izgovor; i nisu ga malo mučili ti razgovori koji su se gomilali u njemu.

We live in a time I did not think I would see in my lifetime, a time when freedom—and in particular freedom of expression, without which the world of books could not exist—is everywhere under attack from reactionary, authoritarian, populist, demagogic, narcissistic, careless voices; when places of education and libraries are subject to hostility and censorship; and when extremist religion and bigoted ideologies have begun to intrude in areas of life in which they do not belong. And there are also progressive voices being raised in favor of a new kind of bien-pensant censorship, one which appears virtuous, and which many people have begun to see as a virtue. So freedom is under pressure from the left as well as the right, the young as well as the old. This is something new, and made more complicated by our new tool of communication, the Internet, on which well-designed pages of malevolent lies sit side by side with the truth, and it is difficult for many people to tell which is which; and our social media, where the idea of freedom is every day abused to permit, very often, a kind of online mob rule, which the billionaire owners of these platforms seem increasingly willing to encourage—and to profit by. What do we do about free speech when it is so widely abused? We should still do, with renewed vigor, what we have always needed to do: to answer bad speech with better speech, to counter false narratives with better narratives, to answer hate with love, and to believe that the truth can still succeed even in an age of lies. We must defend it fiercely and define it as broadly as possible, so, yes, we should of course defend speech that offends us; otherwise we are not defending free expression at all. Let a thousand and one voices speak in a thousand and one different ways. To quote Cavafy, “the barbarians are coming today,” and what I do know is that the answer to philistinism is art, the answer to barbarianism is civilization, and in any war it may be that artists of all sorts—filmmakers, actors, singers, and, yes, those who practice the ancient art of the book—can still, together, turn the barbarians away from the gates.

These associations—Cavafy, my mother polishing the silver, a missionary aunt who fled the familiar turf of Tennessee for the otherness of Korea (presumably with the intent of teaching them something, hopefully with the result of being taught), my Mamaw’s fragrant old bureau with its smell of wax and polish—all of them would be brought to bear upon my painting of peppermints, but none of them would be visible; there’s no reason the viewer would know any of this. I could render only what can be seen—color and form, though the painter’s splendid artifice reveals to us texture, too, and rich associations of scent and flavor, all arriving through the gates of the eyes. And yet there is something more here, and that something is what nags at me to write this book, what tugs at my sleeve and my sleep. Why, if all that is personal has fallen away, should these pictures matter so? Why should they be alight with a feeling of intimacy? Interiority makes itself visible. In my imaginary still life, the “context and commentary” of my experience would be gone, but something would remain, something distilled and vibrant in the quality of attention itself. Is that what soul or spirit is, then, the outward-flying attention, the gaze that binds us to the world? Coorte’s asparagus, his gooseberries and shells, distill this quality down to its quietest, most startling essence: the eye suffuses what it sees with I. Not “I” in the sense of my story, the particulars of my life, the way my father tended his old asparagus beds each spring, the way my beloved loved the forms and colors of shells. But “I” as the quickest, subtlest thing we are: a moment of attention, an intimate engagement. Is that the lesson, then, that ultimately I becomes an eye? What is left of Adriaen Coorte but this? Isn’t that enough? […] That, I think, is the deepest secret of these paintings, finally, although it seems just barely in the realm of the sayable, this feeling that beneath the attachments and appurtenances, the furnishings of selfhood, what we are is attention, a quick physical presence in the world, a bright point of consciousness in a wide field from which we are not really separate. That, in a field of light, we are intensifications of that light.

The Funeral of Sarpedon Zeus is heavy with grief. Sarpedon is dead at Patroclus’ hands and, right now, the son of Menoetius and his Achaeans are setting out to steal the corpse and desecrate it. But Zeus will not allow it. He had left his beloved child alone and now he’s lost – for such the Law demanded. But at least he will honour him in death. Behold: he sends Phoebus down to the field with orders to care for the body. Phoebus lifts the hero’s corpse with reverence and pity, and bears him to the river. He washes away the blood and dust and closes the wounds, careful not to leave a scar; he pours balm of ambrosia over the body and clothes him in resplendent Olympian robes. He blanches the skin and with a comb of pearl straightens the raven-black hair. He lays him out, arranging the lovely limbs. The youth seems a king, a charioteer, twenty-five or twenty-six years old – relishing his moment of victory, with the swiftest stallions, upon a golden chariot in a grand competition. Phoebus, completing his assignment, calls on his two siblings, Sleep and Death, commanding them to carry the body to Lycia, land of riches. So the two brothers, Sleep and Death, set out on foot to transport the body to Lycia, land of riches. And at the door of the king’s palace they hand over the glorious body and return to their affairs. As they receive him into the palace they begin laments and tributes, processions and libations flowing from sacred vessels and everything that befits such a sad funeral; then skilled craftsmen from the city and artists well known for their work in marble arrive to fashion the tomb and the stele.