Stelios Adam

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Ισίδωρος Ζουργός
“Αυτό είναι η κόλαση, αφέντη, δύο άνθρωποι μαλωμένοι μες στο σκοτάδι.”
Ισίδωρος Ζουργός, Σκηνές από τον βίο του Ματίας Αλμοσίνο

Constantinos P. Cavafy
“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.”
C.P. Cavafy, Selected Poems

Danilo Kiš
“Since childhood, I was afflicted with a sick hypersensitivity, and my imagination quickly turned everything into a memory, too quickly: sometimes one day was enough, or an interval of a few hours, or a routine change of place, for an everyday event with a lyrical value that I did not sense at the time, to become suddenly adorned with a radiant echo, the echo ordinarily reserved only for those memories which have been standing for many years in the powerful fixative of lyrical oblivion.”
Danilo Kiš, Garden, Ashes

Danilo Kiš
“History is written by the victors. Legends are woven by the people. Writers fantasize. Only death is certain.

"To Die for One's Country is Glorious," p. 131”
Danilo Kiš, The Encyclopedia of the Dead

Paul Auster
“We all want to be told stories, and we listen to them in the same way we did when we were young. We imagine the real story inside the words, and to do this we substitute ourselves for the person in the story, pretending that we can understand him because we understand ourselves. This is a deception. We exist for ourselves, perhaps, and at times we even have a glimmer of who we are, but in the end we can never be sure, and as our lives go on, we become more and more opaque to ourselves, more and more aware of our own incoherence. No one can cross the boundary into another—for the simple reason that no one can gain access to himself.”
Paul Auster, The New York Trilogy

year in books
George K.
3,270 books | 1,296 friends

Alex Boyd
2,031 books | 113 friends

Monica
1,719 books | 4,839 friends

Erin *P...
10,645 books | 3,720 friends

Γιώργος...
733 books | 1,019 friends

Arthur ...
1,507 books | 848 friends

Kat
Kat
2,694 books | 76 friends

Marilena.
579 books | 148 friends

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