Only one woman exists in this world, one woman with countless faces. ― Nikos Kazantzakis, The Last Temptation of Christ. (Simon & Schuster; Reprint edition March 1, 1998) Originally published 1952.
Life on earth means: the sprouting of wings. ― Nikos Kazantzakis, The Last Temptation of Christ. (Simon & Schuster; Reprint edition March 1, 1998) Originally published 1952.
With that she loosed from her breasts the breastband, pierced and alluring, with every kind of enchantment woven through it . . . There is the heat of Love, the pulsing rush of Longing, the lover’s whisper, irresistible—magic to make the sanest man go mad. — Homer, The Iliad: Book XIV. (Period: Bronze Age.Traditional dating:… Continue reading Homer
Beauty and the Illiterate Often, in the Repose of Evening her soul took a lightness from the mountains across, although the day was harsh and tomorrow foreign. But, when it darkened well and out came the priest’s hand over the little garden of the dead, She Alone, Standing, with the few domestics… Continue reading Odysseus Elytis
In the final analysis, roses are nothing but tears. Nothing but the whistle of the leaving train and the breach of a promise. Sorrow, too, is nothing but an evening leaning on April. — Odysseus Elytis, from “Disappointment Below Zero,” Cards on the Table (1974) (collection of essays and letters, 1936-1974)
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… Continue reading C.P. Cavafy
I’m in love with people’s hands and the way they clench their fists and the way their fingertips lightly press down onto piano keys or thighs. Calloused fingers or dainty fingers. Hands writing poems or memos or parking tickets. Hands writing futures. To me, every crease on the palm is a love line. — Mesogeios… Continue reading Mesogeios
there are pains that will not stay quiet in the heart. They thirst to get out and give vent to grieving. — C.P. Cavafy, from “A Love,” The Complete Poems, transl. by Rae Dalven (Mariner Books, 1976)
On the right—no, opposite—a wardrobe with a mirror. In the middle the table where he wrote, and the three big wicker chairs. Beside the window the bed where we made love so many times. They must still be around somewhere, those old things. Beside the window the bed; the afternoon sun used to touch half… Continue reading C.P. Cavafy
In my ripped clothes I have a tender heart made of birds and flowers (How many nights I cried secretly for the wound of the butterfly). — Yannis Ritsos, from “The March of the Ocean,” Yannis Ritsos: Poems. (Libros Libertad, September 29, 2010)