Ismene Quotes

Antigone: We begin in the dark and birth is the death of us. Ismene: Who said that? Antigone: Hegel. Ismene: Sounds more like Beckett. Antigone: He was paraphrasing Hegel. Ismene: I don't think so.

May the dead forgive me, I can do no other But as I am commanded; to do more is madness." - Ismene, Antigone (The Theban Plays) by Sophocles

ISMENE: How can I live alone, without her? CREON: Her? Don't even mention her-- she no longer exists. ISMENE: What? You'd kill your own son's bride? CREON: Absolutely: there are other fields for him to plow.

May the dead forgive me, I can do no other But as I am commanded; to do more is madness." - Ismene

Sister, forbear, or I shall hate thee soon, And the dead man will hate thee too, with cause. Say I am mad and give my madness rein To wreck itself; the worst that can befall Is but to die an honorable death.   ISMENE

A sinless sinner, banned awhile on earth, But by the dead commended; and with them I shall abide for ever.  As for thee, Scorn, if thou wilt, the eternal laws of Heaven.   ISMENE

I'd been kind to Ismene- or I thought I had, but perhaps no kindness was possible between owner and slave, only varying degrees of brutality?

Warm für die Kalten leidet deine Seele. (warm for the cold does your soul burn) - Ismene to Antigone

«ISMENE A chi vive tra le sofferenze il senno non rimane, signore, ma svanisce.»

Through the shimmering air, I looked on the face of the girl who had been called Ismene. She looked like she was sleeping. I searched my heart for a prayer to offer, but I did not know the gods the Lanista had spoken of. I only knew my own. So I formed a silent prayer for the dead girl I’d never known but in that moment felt a strange kinship with. “May the Morrigan keep your soul,” I whispered in my mind.

A constant stream of red-shirted choppers came and went, men from the north and coastal fishermen—Irish, Bluenoses, Province men, a few French Canadians, St. Francis Indians, Passamaquoddy and Mi’kmaq, and P. I.s—men from Prince Edward Island—and sometimes a man from foreign shores. There were always two or three Québécois running from the impoverished habitant life. The

Why would Maurel humble himself in front of Ismene to such an extent?” she heard herself ask in bafflement. The priest approached her, the sounds of his footsteps echoing around the hollow space as he offered a clarification. “Because she was his most valuable possession, and that made her even more powerful than him.

En cuanto a ti, si es lo que crees, deshonra lo que los dioses honran. ISMENE. —En cuanto a mi, yo no quiero hacer nada deshonroso, pero de natural me faltan fuerzas para desafiar a los ciudadanos.

ANTÍGONA. —Tú escogiste vivir, y yo la muerte. ISMENE. —Pero no sin que mis palabras, al menos, te advirtieran. ANTÍGONA. —Para unos, tú pensabas bien…, yo para otros.

reached beneath the folds of her cloak and brought forth a lamp, a delicate thing hanging on a slender chain. “To light your way in the darkness,” I heard her murmur. She let the chain slide through her fingers, and the lantern dropped gently into the pit on top of the other things. Then she raised her voice and said, “Her name was Ismene. Let it be known. She was a sister of our familia. A gladiatrix of House Achillea. She fought as we fight, with bravery and with skill. Five days ago, she fought to win honor in a match with a warrior maid of the House Amazona. She won, but Ismene was grievously wounded in that fight. Our surgeons did what they could for her. Last night the goddess Nemesis, she of the midnight brow, in her great wisdom called Ismene to the realm of heroes and sent forth Mercury to guide her there. She feasts now in the halls of Dis, she spars with Minerva, and she waits for all of us to join her there, and we mourn her absence even as others have this very day joined our ranks here.

the time I got back to my room, I had thoroughly envisioned every wretched scenario imaginable . . . only to find a new, neatly folded tunic lying on the lid of my trunk. Beside the tunic, there was a broad crimson leather belt that cinched tight with fine bronze buckles, and a pair of red-dyed leather sandals that laced all the way up to the knee. There was also a lamp—a fine new oil lamp to replace the dim little lump of tallow candle that sat in a clay dish on my windowsill. I remembered the lamp the Lanista had lowered into the grave of the gladiatrix Ismene, and a shiver ran up my spine. I had been chosen to swear the oath. The lamp would light my cell until the day I won my freedom. Or died.