The Importance of Mary of Magdala according to Saint Nikolai Velimirovich of Ohrid

Now as long as the living Jesus was with the first Church she was all right. His life was the source of her life; His authority and power meant her existence and unity. But when the Shepherd was smitten the sheep were scattered. When the followers of Christ saw Him powerless and dead they denied Him and fell back to their natural instinct of self-defence, and the first Church died with the death of Christ. It was like the green corn in the field smitten by a flail to the very root. The owner of the corn walks in the field and looks with despair on his perished corn. But it happens often that after a few days the field begins under the sunshine to flourish anew, and the corn grows beautifully and brings forth plenty of fruit.

Mary of Magdala and the other Mary brought this first sunshine over the smitten corn. "He is alive!" This was the tidings of the women on the second morning after His death. This tidings about the living Lord Jesus con-verted Peter and the other disciples again to Christianity. "He is alive"—that was the greatest word ever uttered by any human tongue since the Church was founded. Yea, through this very word the drooping Church was brought again to life. Whatever utterances Peter made during Christ's life were as dead as stone compared with Mary Magdalene's tidings of the living Lord after the catastrophe of His death. The beautiful and true words: "Thou art the Christ, the Son of the living God," had no meaning whatever for the future of Christianity in comparison with the certainty that the dead Christ had risen, i.e. that He was Lord even over death. Therefore if I could be convinced that a grain of good as small as the mustard seed should result from the strange quarrels about the primacy of this or that Church—or this or that bishop—I would be very sorry that there did not exist a Church founded upon the memory of Mary Magdalene. For Mary Magdalene, and not St Peter, expressed the first the absolutely decisive revelation, church making and world-changing. "He is alive" was this decisive revelation.

An Uneven Square: A New Blog that will focus on Modern Greek Art

http://unevensquare.blogspot.com/

From studying the monuments of our religious tradition, I have drawn conclusions about the symmetrically unsymmetrical and about the fact that an uneven square may be geometrically more correct than an even one, about rhythm as the basic element explaining the world and human life… - N.G. Pentzikis

Ακατάληπτον εστι

The Pantocrator of Gracanica by Fr. Stamatis Skliris

They painted a beautiful, robust Pantocrator, combining humanity and divine glory. But the look in His eyes has something special, which deserves special mention. The Pantocrator’s eyebrows are emphatically raised, so that Christ’s eyes are particularly focused on the believer, who converses in prayer with the God-Man. His raised eyebrows draw the facial muscles upward and create horizontal wrinkles which furrow the forehead. He “leans” over the viewer. He pays special attention to that person, not passing him over indifferently, but looking at him with wide-open eyes that raise the upper eyelids, wrinkling the forehead of the God-Man as if He loves man so deeply that He suffers with him, considering his plight, desiring to support him, to help him. Here we have the central idea and theological reality that characterizes the Astrapas school—God’s humanity. Gracanica’s uniqueness lies in the fact that the so-called Pantocrator, which inspires liturgical awe, is depicted not just as the God-Man—i.e., God who assumed human nature—but as Co-Man, identifying Himself with man in his suffering and helplessness, identifying Himself with human pain through His suffering on the Cross and His humiliating death. Through His philanthropic gaze, the majestic Pantocrator lowers Himself and meets His creation. The eternal and infinite meets the finite in a particular place and time, within history, where they reconcile within the same fate.

This composition, with its wrinkles in the forehead, was not repeated in other Byzantine churches, perhaps because its boldness brought it to the threshold of the psychologization of the divine drama. The drama of the Cross is not confined to the human emotions of pain and torment, but within the Church’s liturgy is illuminated by the overcoming of tragedy by the Resurrection of Christ, who thus becomes the Savior of both man and all creation. Gracanica’s Pantocrator is, therefore, truly unique, since it was not copied from anyone. It is original and loving, and for this reason it constitutes a portrait of God, as Christ’s wonderfully loving eyes have revealed it to human beings. The riddle of human destiny finds its solution in the Pantocrator’s theandric gaze.

The article comes from Fr. Stamatis' wonderful website:

http://www.holyicon.org/

A Paschal Homily by Professor Christos Yannaras

"Let him damn me a hundred, a thousand times, it is enough that he exists."

This sentence, placed in the mouth of a character in a theatrical work by Jean-Paul Sartre, is a mark and a measure (I dare to believe) of a revelatory metaphysical hunger.

Does he exist? The question lingers (and will always linger) unanswered. "If I must say whether or not God exists, I am closer to His truth when saying that He does not exist, since God is something entirely different from that which I recognize as existence." (A confession of great boldness from Maximus the Confessor)

If God were a given in Newtonian physics, there would not have been any rational human person. And this for the same reason that an infant will never enter the world of language and symbols, the human world, if its mother holds it day and night in her arms and gives it her breast. We are ushered into language and understanding because within the context of the care of the infant the mother is both the joy of presence and the pain of absence - because the need for food is a desire for relation. A God who gives himself as a matter of necessity would abolish the presuppositions for the transformation of need into demand, of desire into language and symbols, into reason and rationality.

Humans are rational because their being is erotic [by “erotic” Professor Yannaras means the love that takes us outside ourselves] and it is erotic because God is absence. But absence means vital lack, painful thirst, and distressing darkness. "I walk in your night," continues Sartre's character. "Give me your hand, tell me, you are the darkness, right? The night - harrowing, complete absence. You are the one present in the all-embracing absence, the one we hear when everything falls silent, the one we see when nothing is visible. Immemorial night, great night that precedes all that there is…"

This Absence humanizes us but we experience it as night and cannot bear it. The reasons for this are difficult to discern. In any case it is clear that instead of Absence we would rather have tangible fetishes, irrefutable evidence of existence and presence. We want to be in possession of certainties, private proofs, and from proofs to derive power. We are interested in ourselves only, God is simply an 'accessory' of our ego. We need Him so that He may lend us self-confidence, authority, social status; so that He may ease our difficulties in life, and be the psychological antidote to our phobias and panics; and finally so that He may 'save' us and guarantee our existence even after death, so that our ego will exist eternally, without end.

But consider now how the 'atheist' Sartre overturns our egocentric (supposedly 'religious') soteriology. "Let him damn me a hundred, a thousand times, it is enough that he exists." The 'atheist', in an unexpected leap, reaches the heights of erotic selflessness. If he exists, that's enough for me, even if I am damned. My foremost desire is Him. If He exists, everything has meaning: my existence and my damnation, the good and the bad, justice and injustice, the world and history. If He exists, everything begins from love and aims at love, everything is related to Him, everything is judged in accordance with the degree to which His manic love for His creatures is reciprocated.

Existence has meaning when life becomes relation - relation is not something that can be destroyed by death. If "even the hairs of your head are all numbered" (Luke 12:7, Matthew 10:30), if there is a Love which composes the miracle of the world, if the wisdom and beauty of creatures call forth in the fullness of relation, then the thirst of the human person has a vital purpose and his hope is realistic. We thirst for life - that is, to be related to Him, not to survive forever as an individual unit, not the hell of the endless loneliness of the ego.

With the brain nothing is explained, countless 'why's' remain unanswered. Why should death cut little children down, why the biological insanity of cancer, why injustice, and why do the unscrupulous come out victorious? Relentless, unbearable questions, without end, show up the human journey as a wild absurdity. And the 'answers' formulated by ideologically driven religions (the 'scientific' apologetics of their governing institutions) crudely offend against the intelligence and dignity of humanity. The blame, they say, lies with the 'freedom' of the human being, not that individual 'freedom' of ours which is ensnared by genetic and socio-historical factors, but rather some dilemma of choice symbolically figured in the 'first' human being (was he a cave man? an ancestor of homo sapiens?) and as a result of his actions we are now faced with the absurdity and horror of human existence.

If we want to get serious, answers might be forthcoming after the leap recommended by Sartre - the leap involved in renouncing egocentric soteriology. In the enthralling pictorial language of so-called 'Byzantine' iconography, by which means was expressed that ecclesiastical experience that is impervious to the uses of power, Christ crucified on the cross is the reality of the Resurrection. This is because death is "trampled upon" only "by means of death", only with the leap towards the height of erotic selflessness.

The 'gospel' of the church is not announced with the language of Apologetics, the language of ideology. It is proclaimed only with the language of the Feast, the language of color and music, of poetry and drama - a language that can be accessed only from within the battle of ascetic self-renunciation.

Holy Friday with Xylouris

The Grand Inquisitor - John Gielgud

BEYOND TORTURE -- The gulag of Pitesti ROMANIA

Metropolitan Kallistos Ware: The Desert Fathers and Mothers

The Gospel According to Abba Isaac

God the Lord surrendered His own Son to death on the Cross for the fervent love of creation... This was not, however, because He could not redeem us in another way, but so that His surpassing love, manifested hereby, might be a teacher unto us. And by the death of His Only-begotten Son He made us near to Himself. If He had had anything more precious, He would have given it to us, so that by it our race might be His own. Because of His great love for us it was not His pleasure to do violence to our freedom, although He is able to do so, but He chose that we should draw near to Him by the love of our understanding. For the sake of His love for us and obedience to His Father, Christ joyfully took upon Himself insult and sorrow... In like manner, when the saints become perfect, they all attain to this perfection, and by the superabundant outpouring of their love and compassion upon all men they resemble God.

When we find love, we partake of heavenly bread and are made strong without labor and toil. The heavenly bread is Christ, who came down from heaven and gave life to the world. This is the nourishment of angels. The person who has found love eats and drinks Christ every day and every hour and is thereby made immortal. …When we hear Jesus say, “Ye shall eat and drink at the table of my kingdom,” what do we suppose we shall eat, if not love? Love, rather than food and drink, is sufficient to nourish a person. This is the wine “which maketh glad the heart.” Blessed is the one who partakes of this wine! Licentious people have drunk this wine and become chaste; sinners have drunk it and have forgotten the pathways of stumbling; drunkards have drunk this wine and become fasters; the rich have drunk it and desired poverty, the poor have drunk it and been enriched with hope; the sick have drunk it and become strong; the unlearned have taken it and become wise.

Far be it that we should ever think such an iniquity that God could become unmerciful! For the property of Divinity does not change as do mortals. God does not acquire something which He does not have, nor lose what He has, nor supplement what He does have, as do created beings. But what God has from the beginning, He will have and has until the [unending] end, as the blessed Cyril wrote in his commentary on Genesis. Fear God, he says, out of love for Him, and not for the austere name that He has been given. Love Him as you ought to love Him; not for what He will give you in the future, but for what we have received, and for this world alone which He has created for us. Who is the man that can repay Him? Where is Gehenna, that can afflict us? Where is perdition that terrifies us in many ways and quenches the joy of His love? And what is Gehenna as compared with the grace of His resurrection, when He will raise us from Hades and cause our corruptible nature to be clad in incorruption, and raise up in glory him that has fallen into Hades?

As for me I say that those who are tormented in hell are tormented by the invasion of love. What is there more bitter and violent than the pains of love? Those who feel they have sinned against love bear in themselves damnation much heavier than the most dreaded punishments. The suffering with which sinning against love afflicts the heart is more keenly felt than any other torment. It is absurd to assume that the sinners in hell are deprived of God’s love. Love is offered impartially. But by its very power it acts in two ways. It torments sinners, as happens here on earth when we are tormented by the presence of a friend to whom we have been unfaithful. And it gives joy to those who have been faithful.

That is what the torment of hell is in my opinion: remorse. But love inebriates the souls of the sons and daughters of heaven by its delectability.

In love did God bring the world into existence; in love is God going to bring it to that wondrous transformed state, and in love will the world be swallowed up in the great mystery of the One who has performed all these things…

The Angels in Iconography (18 Icons)

Zissimos Lorenzatos: A Prophet and A Poet

If we make a brief survey of the course followed in Greece since 1821, it might be useful to consider:

1.     Whether we should continue to follow in the footsteps of Europe

2.     Whether this crisis may help us envisage the possibility that we once possessed a spiritual way of our own

3.     If so, what kind of way was it we have apparently lost

4.     Did we really have to lose our way, since there have always been voices among us to remind us where the true path could be found?

5.     Should we perhaps investigate the possibility that our tradition essentially diverges and branches away from European tradition?

6.     Whether it is possible (I am convinced that it is) to find our way again.

The Greatest Poem never Written

Οι Ελεύθεροι Πολιορκημένοι είναι ένα από τα κορυφαία ποιητικά συνθέματα του εθνικού ποιητή Διονύσιου Σολωμού

1.
Άκρα του τάφου σιωπή στον κάμπο βασιλεύει·
Λαλεί πουλί, παίρνει σπυρί, κι’ η μάνα το ζηλεύει.
Τα μάτια η πείνα εμαύρισε· στα μάτια η μάνα μνέει·
Στέκει ο Σουλιώτης ο καλός παράμερα και κλαίει:
«Έρμο τουφέκι σκοτεινό, τί σ’ έχω γω στο χέρι;
Οπού συ μούγινες βαρύ κι’ ο Αγαρηνός το ξέρει.»

2.
Το Μεσολόγγι έπεσε την άνοιξη· ο ποιητής παρασταίνει την Φύση, εις τη στιγμή που είναι ωραιότερη, ως μία δύναμη, η οποία, με όλα τ’ άλλα και υλικά και ηθικά ενάντια, προσπαθεί να δειλιάση τους πολιορκημένους· ιδού οι Στοχασμοί του ποιητή:

Η ζωή που ανασταίνεται με όλες της τες χαρές, αναβρύζοντας ολούθε, νέα, λαχταριστή, περιχυνόμενη εις όλα τα όντα· η ζωή ακέραιη, απ’ όλα της φύσης τα μέρη, θέλει να καταβάλη την ανθρώπινη ψυχή· θάλασσα, γη, ουρανός, συγχωνευμένα, επιφάνεια και βάθος συγχωνευμένα, τα οποία πάλι πολιορκούν την ανθρώπινη φύση στην επιφάνεια και εις το βάθος της.
Η ωραιότης της φύσης, που τους περιτριγυρίζει, αυξαίνει εις τους εχθρούς την ανυπομονησία να πάρουν τη χαριτωμένη γη, και εις τους πολιορκημένους τον πόνο ότι θα τη χάσουν.

Ο Απρίλης με τον Έρωτα χορεύουν και γελούνε,
Κι’ όσ’ άνθια βγαίνουν και καρποί τόσ’ άρματα σε κλειούνε.

Λευκό βουνάκι πρόβατα κινούμενο βελάζει,
Και μες στη θάλασσα βαθιά ξαναπετιέται πάλι,
Κι’ ολόλευκο εσύσμιξε με τ’ ουρανού τα κάλλη.
Και μες στης λίμνης τα νερά, όπ’ έφθασε μ’ ασπούδα,
Έπαιξε με τον ίσκιο της γαλάζια πεταλούδα,
Που ευώδιασε τον ύπνο της μέσα στον άγριο κρίνο·
Το σκουληκάκι βρίσκεται σ’ ώρα γλυκιά κι’ εκείνο.
Μάγεμα η φύσις κι’ όνειρο στην ομορφιά και χάρη,
Η μαύρη πέτρα ολόχρυση και το ξερό χορτάρι·
Με χίλιες βρύσες χύνεται, με χίλιες γλώσσες κραίνει·
Όποιος πεθάνη σήμερα χίλιες φορές πεθαίνει.

Τρέμ’ η ψυχή και ξαστοχά γλυκά τον εαυτό της.


3.
Ενώ ακούεται το μαγευτικό τραγούδι της άνοιξης, οπού κινδυνεύει να ξυπνήση εις τους πολιορκημένους την αγάπη της ζωής τόσον, ώστε να ολιγοστέψη η αντρεία τους, ένας των Ελλήνων πολεμάρχων σαλπίζει κράζοντας τους άλλους εις συμβούλιο, και η σβημένη κλαγγή, οπού βγαίνει μέσ’ από το αδυνατισμένο στήθος του, φθάνοντας εις το εχθρικό στρατόπεδο παρακινεί έναν Αράπη να κάμη ό,τι περιγράφουν οι στίχοι 4-12.'

«Σάλπιγγα, κόψ’ του τραγουδιού τα μάγια με βία,
Γυναικός, γέροντος, παιδιού, μη κόψουν την αντρεία.»

Χαμένη, αλίμονον! κι’ οκνή τη σάλπιγγα γρικάει·
Αλλά πώς φθάνει στον εχθρό και κάθ’ ηχώ ξυπνάει;
Γέλιο στο σκόρπιο στράτευμα σφοδρό γεννοβολιέται,
Κι’ η περιπαίχτρα σάλπιγγα μεσουρανίς πετιέται·
Και με χαρούμενη πνοή το στήθος το χορτάτο,
Τ’ αράθυμο, το δυνατό, κι’ όλο ψυχές γιομάτο,
Βαρώντας γύρου ολόγυρα, ολόγυρα και πέρα,
Τον όμορφο τρικύμισε και ξάστερον αέρα·
Τέλος μακριά σέρνει λαλιά, σαν το πεσούμεν’ άστρο,
Τρανή λαλιά, τρόμου λαλιά, ρητή κατά το κάστρο.

4.
Μόλις έπαυσε το σάλπισμα ο Αράπης, μία μυριόφωνη βοή ακούεται εις το εχθρικό στρατόπεδο, και η βίγλα του κάστρου, αχνή σαν το χάρο, λέει των Ελλήνων: «Μπαίνει ο εχθρικός στόλος.» Το πυκνό δάσος έμεινε ακίνητο εις τα νερά, όπου η ελπίδα απάντεχε να ιδή τα φιλικά καράβια. Τότε ο εχθρός εξανανέωσε την κραυγή, και εις αυτήν αντιβόησαν οι νεόφθαστοι μέσ’ από τα καράβια. Μετά ταύτα μία ακατάπαυτη βροντή έκανε τον αέρα να τρέμη πολλή ώρα, και εις αυτή την τρικυμία

Η μαύρη γη σκιρτά ως χοχλό μες στο νερό που βράζει.

―Έως εκείνη τη στιγμή οι πολιορκημένοι είχαν υπομείνει πολλούς αγώνες με κάποιαν ελπίδα να φθάση ο φιλικός στόλος και να συντρίψη ίσως τον σιδερένιο κύκλο οπού τους περιζώνει· τώρα οπού έχασαν κάθε ελπίδα, και ο εχθρός τούς τάζει να τους χαρίση τη ζωή αν αλλαξοπιστήσουν, η υστερινή τους αντίσταση τους αποδείχνει Μάρτυρες.

5.
. . . . . . . . . . . Στην πεισμωμένη μάχη
Σφόδρα σκιρτούν μακριά πολύ τα πέλαγα κι’ οι βράχοι,
Και τα γλυκοχαράματα, και μες στα μεσημέρια,
Κι’ όταν θολώσουν τα νερά, κι’ όταν εβγούν τ’ αστέρια.
Φοβούνται γύρου τα νησιά, παρακαλούν και κλαίνε,
Κι’ οι ξένοι ναύκληροι μακριά πικραίνονται και λένε:
«Αραπιάς άτι, Γάλλου νους, σπαθί Τουρκιάς μολύβι,
Πέλαγο μέγα βράζ’ ο εχθρός προς το φτωχό καλύβι.»

6.
Ένας πολέμαρχος ξάφνου απομακραίνεται από τον κύκλο, όπου είναι συναγμένοι εις συμβούλιο για το γιουρούσι, γιατί τον επλάκωσε η ενθύμηση, τρομερή εις εκείνη την ώρα της άκρας δυστυχίας, ότι εις εκείνο το ίδιο μέρος, εις τες λαμπρές ημέρες της νίκης, είχε πέσει κοπιασμένος από τον πολεμικό αγώνα, και αυτού επρωτάκουσε, από τα χείλη της αγαπημένης του, τον αντίλαλο της δόξας του, οποία έως τότε είχε μείνει άγνωστη εις την απλή και ταπεινή ψυχή του.

Μακριά απ’ όπ’ ήτα’ αντίστροφος κι’ ακίνητος εστήθη·
Μόνε σφοδρά βροντοκοπούν τ’ αρματωμένα στήθη·
«Εκεί ’ρθε το χρυσότερο από τα ονείρατά μου·
Με τ’ άρματ’ όλα βρόντησα τυφλός του κόπου χάμου.
Φωνή ’πε ―Ο δρόμος σου γλυκός και μοσχοβολισμένος·
Στην κεφαλή σου κρέμεται, ο ήλιος μαγεμένος·
Παλληκαρά και μορφονιέ, γεια σου, Καλέ, χαρά σου!
Άκου! νησιά, στεριές της γης, εμάθαν τ’ όνομά σου.―
Τούτος, αχ! πού ’ν’ ο δοξαστός κι’ η θεϊκιά θωριά του;
Η αγκάλη μ’ έτρεμ’ ανοιχτή κατά τα γόνατά του.
Έριξε χάμου τα χαρτιά με τς είδησες του κόσμου
Η κορασιά τρεμάμενη . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Χαρά τής έσβηε τη φωνή πούν’ τώρα αποσβημένη·
Άμε, χρυσ’ όνειρο, και συ με τη σαβανωμένη.
Εδώ ’ναι χρεία να κατεβώ, να σφίξω το σπαθί μου,
Πριν όλοι χάσουν τη ζωή, κι’ εγ’ όλη την πνοή μου·
Τα λίγα απομεινάρια της πείνας και τς αντρείας,
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Γκόλφι να τάχω στο πλευρό και να τα βγάλω πέρα,
Που μ’ έκραξαν μ’ απαντοχή, φίλο, αδελφό, πατέρα·
Δρόμ’ αστραφτά να σχίσω τους σ’ εχθρούς καλά θρεμμένους,
Σ’ εχθρούς πολλούς, πολλ’ άξιους, πολλά φαρμακωμένους·
Να μείνης, χώμα πατρικό, για μισητό ποδάρι·
Η μαύρη πέτρα σου χρυσή και το ξερό χορτάρι.»

«Θύρες ανοίξτ’ ολόχρυσες για την γλυκιάν ελπίδα.»

7.
Κρυφή χαρά ’στραψε σ’ εσέ· κάτι καλό ’χει ο νους σου·
Πες, να το ξεμυστηρευτής θες τ’ αδελφοποιτού σου;
Ψυχή μεγάλη και γλυκιά, μετά χαράς σ’ το λέω:
Θαυμάζω τες γυναίκες μας και στ’ όνομά τους μνέω.

Εφοβήθηκα κάποτε μη δειλιάσουν και τες επαρατήρησα αδιάκοπα,

Για η δύναμη δεν είν’ σ’ αυτές ίσια με τ’ άλλα δώρα.

Απόψε, ενώ είχαν τα παράθυρα ανοιχτά για τη δροσιά, μία απ’ αυτές, η νεώτερη, επήγε να τα κλείση, αλλά μία άλλη της είπε: «Όχι, παιδί μου· άφησε νάμπη η μυρωδιά από τα φαγητά· είναι χρεία να συνηθίσουμε·

Μεγάλο πράμα η υπομονή! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Αχ! μας την έπεμψε ο Θεός· κλει θησαυρούς κι’ εκείνη.

Εμείς πρέπει να έχουμε υπομονή, αν και έρχονταν οι μυρωδιές.

Απ’ όσα δίν’ η θάλασσα, απ’ όσ’ η γη, ο αέρας.»

Κι’ έτσι λέγοντας εματάνοιξε το παράθυρο, και η πολλή μυρωδιά των αρωμάτων εχυνότουν μέσα κι’ εγιόμισε το δωμάτιο. Και η πρώτη είπε: «Και το αεράκι μάς πολεμάει.» ―Μία άλλη έστεκε σιμά εις το ετοιμοθάνατο παιδί της,

Κι’ άφ’σε το χέρι του παιδιού κι’ εσώπασε λιγάκι,
Και ξάφνου της εφάνηκε στο στόμα το βαμπάκι.

Και άλλη είπε χαμογελώντας, να διηγηθή καθεμία τ’ όνειρό της,

Κι’ όλες εφώναξαν μαζί κι’ είπαν πως είδαν ένα.
Κι’ ό,τι αποφάσισαν μαζί να πουν τα ονείρατά τους,
Είπα να ιδώ τη γνώμη τους στην υπνοφαντασιά τους.

Και μία είπε: «Μου εφαίνοτουν ότι όλοι εμείς, άντρες και γυναίκες, παιδιά και γέροι, ήμαστε ποτάμια, ποια μικρά, ποια μεγάλα, κι’ ετρέχαμε ανάμεσα εις τόπους φωτεινούς, εις τόπους σκοτεινούς, σε λαγκάδια, σε γκρεμούς, απάνου κάτου, κι’ έπειτα εφθάναμε μαζί στη θάλασσα με πολλή ορμή,

Και μες στη θάλασσα γλυκά βαστούσαν τα νερά μας.»

Και μία δεύτερη είπε:

«Εγώ ’δα δάφνες.―Κι εγώ φως· . . . . . .
―Κι’ εγώ σ’ φωτιά μιαν όμορφη π’ αστράφταν τα μαλλιά της.»

Και αφού όλες εδιηγήθηκαν τα ονείρατά τους, εκείνη πούχε το παιδί ετοιμοθάνατο είπε: «Ιδές, και εις τα ονείρατα ομογνωμούμε, καθώς εις τη θέληση και εις όλα τ’ άλλα έργα.» Και όλες οι άλλες εσυμφώνησαν κι’ ετριγύρισαν με αγάπη το παιδί της πούχε ξεψυχήσει.

Ιδού, αυτές οι γυναίκες φέρνονται θαυμαστά· αυτές είναι μεγαλόψυχες, και λένε ότι μαθαίνουν από μας· δε δειλιάζουν, μολονότι τους επάρθηκε η ελπίδα που είχαν να γεννήσουν τέκνα για τη δόξα και για την ευτυχία. Εμείς λοιπόν μπορούμε να μάθουμε απ’ αυτές και να τες λατρεύουμε έως την ύστερην ώρα. ―Πες μου και συ τώρα γιατί εχθές, ύστερ’ από το συμβούλιο, ενώ εστεκόμαστε σιωπηλοί, απομακρύνθηκες ταραγμένος·

Να μου το πης να τόχω γω γκολφισταυρό στον άδη.

Εχαμογέλασε πικρά κι’ ολούθενε κοιτάζει·
Κι’ ανεί πολύ τα βλέφαρα τα δάκρυα να βαστάξουν.

8.
Παρασταίνεται ο Ιμπραΐμ Πασάς συλλογιζόμενος τη σημαντικότητα της γης, την οποία θέλει να κυριέψη, και τον πόνο και την εντροπή του αν δεν το κατορθώση.

Καθώς εκεί στην Αραπιά . . . . . . . . . . . .
Χύνεται ανάερα το σκυλί της δίψας λυσσιασμένο.

Μες στην ψυχή την αγρικά σα σπίθα στη φωτιά της.

Και συχνά τούπ’ η αράθυμη και τρίσβαθη ψυχή του:

«Κάμποι, βουνά καρπόφορα, και λίμνη ωραία και πλούσια.»

«Σ’ τουφέκι αλλάξαν και σπαθί το δίχτυ και τ’ αγκίστρι.»

«Μάνα καλή παλληκαριών, και κάμε τη δική σου.»

«Αιώνια ήθελ’ ήτανε ο πόνος κι’ η ντροπή μου.»

9.
Ετούτ’ είν’ ύστερη νυχτιά· όλα τ’ αστέρια βγάνει·
Ολονυχτίς ανέβαινε η δέηση, το λιβάνι.

Ο Αράπης, τραβηγμένος από τη μυρωδιά που εσκορπούσε το θυμίαμα, περίεργος και ανυπόμονος, με βιαστικά πατήματα πλησιάζει εις το τείχος,

Και απάνου, ανάγκη φοβερή! σκυλί δεν του ’λυχτάει.

Και ακροάζεται· αλλά τη νυχτική γαλήνη δεν αντίσκοβε μήτε φωνή, μήτε κλάψα, μήτε αναστεναγμός· ήθελε πης ότι είχε παύσει η ζωή· οι ήρωες είναι ενωμένοι και, μέσα τους, λόγια λένε

Για την αιωνιότητα, που μόλις τα χωράει·
Στα μάτια και στο πρόσωπο φαίνοντ’ οι στοχασμοί τους·
Τους λέει μεγάλα και πολλά η τρίσβαθη ψυχή τους.
Αγάπη κι’ έρωτας καλού τα σπλάχνα τους τινάζουν·
Τα σπλάχνα τους κι’ η θάλασσα ποτέ δεν ησυχάζουν·
Γλυκιά κι’ ελεύθερ’ η ψυχή σα νάτανε βγαλμένη,
Κι’ υψώναν με χαμόγελο την όψη τη φθαρμένη.

10.
Αφού έκαψαν τα κρεβάτια, οι γυναίκες παρακαλούν τους άντρες να τες αφήσουν να κάμουνε αντάμα, εις το σπήλαιο, την υστερινή δέηση. Μι’ απ’ αυτές, η γεροντότερη, μιλεί για τες άλλες: «Άκουσε, παιδί μου, και τούτο από το στόμα μου,

Πούμ’ όλη κάτου από τη γη κι’ ένα μπουτσούνι απ’ έξω.
Ορκίζουν σε στη στάχτ’ αυτή . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Και στα κρεβάτια τ’ άτυχα με το σεμνό στεφάνι·
Ν’ αφήστε σάς παρακαλούν να τρέξουμε σ’ εκείνο,
Να κάμουμ’ άμα το στερνό χαιρετισμό και θρήνο.»

Κι’ επειδή εκείνος αργούσε ολίγο να δώση την απόκριση,

Όλες στη γη τα γόνατα εχτύπησαν ομπρός του,
Κι’ εβάστααν όλες κατ’ αυτόν τη χούφτα σηκωμένη,
Και με πικρό χαμόγελο την όψη τη φθαρμένη,
Σα νάθελ’ έσπλαχνα ο Θεός βρέξη ψωμί σ’ εκείνες.

11.
Οι γυναίκες, εις τες οποίες έως τότε είχε φανή όμοια μεγαλοψυχία με τους άντρες, όταν δέονται και αυτές, δειλιάζουν λιγάκι και κλαίνε· όθεν προχωρεί η Πράξη· διότι όλα τα φερσίματα των γυναικών αντιχτυπούν εις την καρδιά των πολεμιστάδων, και αυτή είναι η υστερινή εξωτερική δύναμη που τους καταπολεμάει, από την οποίαν, ως απ’ όλες τες άλλες, αυτοί βγαίνουν ελεύθεροι.

12.
Είναι προσωποποιημένη η Πατρίδα, η Μεγάλη Μητέρα, θεάνθρωπη, ώστε να αισθάνεται όλα τα παθήματα, και καθαρίζοντάς τα εις τη μεγάλη ψυχή της να αναπνέη την Παράδεισο·

Πολλές πληγές κι’ εγλύκαναν γιατ’ έσταξ’ αγιομύρος.

Μένει άγρυπνη μέρα και νύχτα, καρτερώντας το τέλος του αγώνος· δεν τα φοβάται τα παιδιά της μη δειλιάσουν· εις τα μάτια της είναι φανερά τα πλέον απόκρυφα της ψυχής τους·

Στου τέκνου σύρριζα το νου, Θεού της μάνας μάτι·
Λόγο, έργο, νόημα . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Από το πρώτο μίλημα στον αγγελοκρουμό του.

Για τούτο αυτή είναι

Ήσυχη για τη γνώμη τους, αλλ’ όχι για τη Μοίρα,
Και μες στην τρίσβαθη ψυχή ο πόνος τής ’πλημμύρα,

Επειδή βλέπει τον εχθρόν άσπονδον, άπονον από το πολύ πείσμα, και καταλαβαίνει ότι αν το Έλεος έχυνε μες στα σπλάχνα του όλους τους θησαυρούς του, τούτοι

Τριαντάφυλλά ’ναι θεϊκά στην κόλαση πεσμένα.

13.
Μένουν οι Μάρτυρες με τα μάτια προσηλωμένα εις την ανατολή, να φέξη για νάβγουνε στο γιουρούσι, και η φοβερή αυγή,

Μνήσθητι, Κύριε ― είναι κοντά· Μνήσθητι, Κύριε ― εφάνη!

Επάψαν τα φιλιά στη γη . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Στα στήθια και στο πρόσωπο, στα χέρια και στα πόδια.

Μία φούχτα χώμα να κρατώ και να σωθώ μ’ εκείνο.

Ιδού, σεισμός και βροντισμός, κι’ εβάστουναν ακόμα,
Που ο κύκλος φθάνει ο φοβερός με τον αφρό στο στόμα,
Κι’ εσχίσθη αμέσως, κι’ έβαλε στης Μάνας τα ποδάρια
Της πείνας και του . . . . . τα λίγα απομεινάρια·
Τ’ απομεινάρια ανέγγιαγα και κατατρομασμένα,
Τα γόνατα και τα σπαθιά τα ματοκυλισμένα.

14.
Το μάτι μου έτρεχε ρονιά κι’ ομπρός του δεν εθώρα,
Κι’ έχασα αυτό το θεϊκό πρόσωπο για πολλή ώρα,
Π’ άστραψε γέλιο αθάνατο, παιγνίδι της χαράς του,
Στο φως της καλοσύνης του, στο φως της ομορφιάς του.

15.
Έχε όσες έχ’ η Ανατολή κι’ όσες ευχές η Δύση.

16.
Μ’ όλον που τότ’ ασάλευτος στο νου μ’ ο νιος εστήθη,
Κι’ είχε τον ήλιο πρόσωπο και το φεγγάρι στήθη.

17.
Κι’ άνθιζε μέσα μου η ζωή μ’ όλα τα πλούτια πόχει.

18.
Συχνά τα στήθια εκούρασα, ποτέ την καλοσύνη.

19.
Ο υιός σου κρίνος με δροσιά φεγγαροστολισμένος.

20.
Στον ύπνο της μουρμούριζε την κλάψα της τρυγόνας.

21.
Ανάξιε δούλε του Χριστού, κάτου τα γόνατά σου.

22.
Για κοίτα κει χάσμα σεισμού βαθιά στον τοίχο πέρα, Και βγαίνουν άνθια πλουμιστά και τρέμουν στον αέρα· Λούλουδα μύρια, που καλούν χρυσό μελισσολόι, Άσπρα, γαλάζια, κόκκινα, και κρύβουνε τη χλόη.

23.
Χιλιάδες ήχοι αμέτρητοι, πολύ βαθιά στη χτίση·
Η Ανατολή τ’ αρχίναγε κι’ ετέλειωνέ το η Δύση.
Κάποι από την Ανατολή κι’ από τη Δύση κάποι·
Κάθ’ ήχος είχε και χαρά, κάθε χαρά κι’ αγάπη.

24.
Κάνε σιμά κι’ είναι ψιλές, κάνε βαριές και πέρα,
Σαν του Μαϊού τες ευωδιές γιομόζαν τον αέρα.

25.
Η όψη ομπρός μου φαίνεται, και μες στη θάλασσ’ όχι,
Όμορφη ως είναι τ’ όνειρο μ’ όλα τα μάγια πόχει.

26.
Χρυσ’ όνειρο ηθέλησε το πέλαγο ν’ αφήση,
Το πέλαγο, που πάτουνε χωρίς να το συγχύση.

27.
Κι’ έφυγε το χρυσ’ όνειρο ως φεύγουν όλα τ’ άλλα.

28.
Ήταν με σένα τρεις χαρές στην πίκρα φυτρωμένες,
Όμως για μένα στη χαρά τρεις πίκρες ριζωμένες.

29.
Όλοι σαν ένας, ναι, χτυπούν, όμως εσύ σαν όλους.

30.
Του πόνου εστρέψαν οι πηγές από το σωθικό μου,
Έστρωσ’ ο νους, κι’ ανέβηκα πάλι στον εαυτό μου.

31.
Το γλυκό σπίτι της ζωής πούχε χαρά και δόξα.

32.
Παράπονο χαμός καιρού σ’ ό,τι κανείς κι’ α χάση.

33.
Χαρά στα μάτια μου να ιδώ τα πολυαγαπημένα,
Που μόδειξε σκληρ’ όνειρο στο σάβανο κλεισμένα.

34.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Και μετά βίας
Τί μόστειλες, χρυσοπηγή της Παντοδυναμίας;

35.
Έστρωσ’, εδέχθ’ η θάλασσα άντρες ριψοκινδύνους,
Κι’ εδέχθηκε στα βάθη τους τον ουρανό κι’ εκείνους.

36.
Πάντ’ ανοιχτά, πάντ’ άγρυπνα, τα μάτια της ψυχής μου.

37.
Οπούν’ ερμιά και σκοτεινιά και του θανάτου σπίτι.

38.
Το πολιορκούμενο Μεσολόγγι έχει τριγύρου χάντακα,
Πόφαγε κόκαλο πολύ του Τούρκου και τ’ Αράπη.

39.
Χθες πρωτοχάρηκε το φως και τον γλυκόν αέρα.

40.
Πάλι μου ξίπασε τ’ αυτί γλυκιάς φωνής αγέρας,
Κι’ έπλασε τ’ άστρο της νυχτός και τ’ άστρο της ημέρας.

41.
Ολίγο φως και μακρινό σε μέγα σκότος κι’ έρμο.

42.
Κι’ όπου η βουλή τους συφορά, κι’ όπου το πόδι χάρος.

43.
Σε βυθό πέφτει από βυθό ως που δεν ήταν άλλος·
Εκείθ’ εβγήκε ανίκητος.

44.
Φως που πατεί χαρούμενο τον Άδη και το χάρο.

45.
Ο αριθμός του εχθρού,
Τόσ’ άστρα δεν εγνώρισεν ο τρίσβαθος αιθέρας.

46.
Η Ελπίδα περνάει από φριχτήν ερημία με
Τα χρυσοπράσινα φτερά γιομάτα λουλουδάκια.

47.
Χάνονται τ’ άνθη τα πολλά, πούχ’ άσπρα με τα φύλλα.

48.
Για να μου ξεμυστηρευθή τα αινίγματα τα θεία.

49.
Σ’ ελέγχ’ η πέτρα που κρατείς και κλει φωνή κι’ αυτήνη.

50.
Μες στ’ άγιο Βήμα της ψυχής.

51.
Η δύναμή σου πέλαγο κι’ η θέλησή μου βράχος.

52.
Στον κόσμο τούτον χύνεται και σ’ άλλους κόσμους φθάνει.

53.
Με φουσκωμένα τα πανιά περήφανα κι’ ωραία.

54.
Πολλοί ’ν’ οι δρόμοι πόχει ο νους.

55.
Η βοή του εχθρικού στρατόπεδου παρομοιάζεται με τον άνεμο,
Οπού περνάει το πέλαγο και κόβεται στο βράχο.

56.
Και το τριφύλλι εχόρτασε και το περιπλοκάδι,
Κι’ εχόρευε κι’ εβέλαζε στο φουντωτό λιβάδι.

57.
Ω γη . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Ο Ουρανός σε προσκαλεί κι’ η Κόλαση βρυχίζει.

58.
Και με το ρούχο ολόμαυρο σαν του λαγού το αίμα.

59.
Και τες ατάραχες πνοές τες πολυαγαπημένες.

60.
Οι Έλληνες, με την ελπίδα να φθάση ο φιλικός στόλος, κοιτάζουν τον μακρινό ξάστερον ορίζοντα κι’ εύχονται
Να θόλωνε στα μάτια τους με κάτι που προβαίνει.

61.
Κι’ επότισέ μου την ψυχή που χόρτασεν αμέσως.

A Sentimental Topography

[From Dimitris Pikionis, Architect 1887-1968 'A Sentimental Topography', Architectural Association, London.] As we walk upon this earth, our hearts experience anew that rapturous joy we felt as children when we first discovered our ability to move in space - the alternating disruption and restoration of balance which is walking.(1) We rejoice in the progress of our body across the uneven surface of the earth and our spirit is gladdened by the endless interplay of the three dimensions that we encounter at every step, the shifting and changing that occurs with the mere passage of a cloud high up in the sky. We walk past a rock, or a tree trunk, or a shrub's tufted foliage; we move up and down, following the rise and fall of the ground, tracing its convexities, which are the hills and mountains, and its concavities, which are the valleys. Then we rejoice in the wide, flat expanse of the plains; we measure the earth by the toil of our bodies. This deserted country lane is far superior to the thoroughfares of the large modern city, for all its twists and curves and infinite changes of perspective show us the divine hypostasis of singularity when submitted to the harmony of the whole. We meditate upon the spirit which emanates from each particular land or place.(2) Here the ground is hard, stony, precipitous, and the soil is brittle and dry. There the ground is level; water surges out of mossy patches. Further on, the breeze, the altitude and the configuration of the ground announce the proximity of the sea. Further on still, the vegetation runs riot, in an extreme culmination of the earth's thrust towards form, towards a perfect attunement of its clothing to the rhythm of the seasons. Natural forces, geometry of the earth and quality of light and air single out this land as a cradle of civilization. Mysterious exhalations seem to rise from the ground. Here are ancient, venerable places of worship - a precipice that fills one's soul with awe, a cave where mysterious spirits, supernatural powers dwell. In face of these primeval images of the earth, the soul is shot through with a mystical tremor, like the waterfinder when his divining rod comes upon the invisible presence of a subterranean stream. Light created the world. Light preserves it and makes it fruitful. Light reveals the world to our corporeal eyes so that the light of our spirits might in turn illuminate the world. Above the fixed, motionless(3) geometry of the earth stretches the perpetually moving domain of air and light.(4) The Star of Life rotates, comes and goes, and so produces day and night, giving us heat and cold, showers and drought, clear and dark skies, cloud, rain and wind. The human soul rejoices in this mobile geometry of air and light, which constitutes the seasons. Light - the infinite world of form and colour - delights the soul. The soul meditates upon the hours, upon the angle of the sun's rays, the length of shadows, the disposition of rain and drought, hot and cold,(5) the configuration of the clouds. But on this particular day what pleases me most is to concentrate on the spectacle of the ground bathed in calm, wintry light. Here are stone formations shaped by divine forces - rocks, broken boulders, the dust born of the fruitful soil, its particles as uncountable as the stars. I stoop and pick up a stone. I caress it with my eyes, with my fingers. It is a piece of grey limestone. Fire moulded its divine shape; water sculpted it and endowed it with this fine covering of clay that has alternating patches of white and rust, with a yellow tinge. I turn it around in my hands. I study the harmony of its contours. I delight in the way hollows and protrusions, light and shadows; balance each other on its surface. I rejoice in the way the universal laws are embodied and fulfilled in this stone - the laws, which, according to Goethe, would have remained unknown to us, had not an innate sense of beauty revealed them to the poet and the artist. In truth, it occurs to me, O stone, that as the incandescent mass of this planet was torn away from the sun and set spinning around like a ring of fire, eventually condensing into our earth, you came to occupy a place within its vast expanse that was in no way accidental. The harmony of the whole, which determined the inclination of our planet's axis, also assigned this particular place to you as your home, as the generator of your supremely spiritual form, within an atmosphere and light that are spiritually attuned to you.(6) The dance of your atoms, governed by number, shapes your constituent parts according to the law of your singularity. You thus enact this twofold law of universal and individual harmony. I feel you growing, expanding in my imagination. Your lateral surfaces turn into slopes, ridges, and noble precipices. Your hollows become caverns, where water silently trickles from the cracks in the rose-coloured rock. Stone, you compose the lineaments of this landscape. You are the landscape. You are the Temple that is to crown the precipitous rocks of your own Acropolis. For what else does the Temple do but enact the same twofold law, which you serve? More than anything else, is not the Temple also 'an explanation of the way in which the entirety of things is arranged'?' Is its equilibrium not similar to that of the mountains of vegetation, of all living creatures? All the forces of nature converge and work together to produce this particular configuration: the refined air, the bright light, the colour of the sky, the floating clouds, the slope of the mountains, the boulders scattered around the Temple's stylobate and the grass growing up between the cracks. O earth, you reduce everything to yourself as the measure, the modulus which penetrates all things. You gave shape to the city, and to the city's various forms of government. You gave shape to the sounds that make up language. You foreshadowed the arts that involve words and forms. Is it not this concordance, this rule of the same laws in both nature and art, that allows us to see forms of nature transformed before our very eyes into forms of art, or vice versa - or one art form transformed into a different art form? Is it not this concordance, this uniformity governing the apparently most diverse creations, which has the power to reveal and explain them by reflection, by comparison? As I paced upon this soil, as I journeyed across this kingdom of limestone and clay, I saw the limestone change into a lintel, and the red clay colour the walls of an imaginary shrine. The large round pebbles of the Cladeus River appeared to me as the heads of heroes, and the statues on the pediments as mountains. Zeus' long hair became a sheer precipice, and this mountain of a thousand shapes - which I gradually pieced together as I walked across it, recomposing in my mind the harmony of its contours - took on the form of a Greek statue. The pleats and folds in the costume of this peasant woman undulate around her ankles, tracing mountain shapes upon the ground. The woven ornamentation around the hem of her skirt stands out as vividly as a frieze. The dance unfolds like a moving colonnade. The sound of the pipe, interwoven with the dancers' song, makes the mountaintops sway and the rivers flow. The rhythm of these draperies as they ripple around the body, the shape of this brow or forearm, the waves and curls of that hair - all of these explain the landscape. O limestone, you fashioned the stern brow of Aeschylus. Musical notes emanate from the stylobate and the moulded echinus evokes an ancient manuscript. The austere structure that can be seen in the statues can also be found in language. Yet what are the secret relations, O almighty number, that you have established today between the geometry of creation and the crystalline air, which allows the unadulterated essence of divine light to filter through to us? No other light, no other day can ever equal the clarity of the calm, limpid autumn hours. An ineffable mystery irradiates creation this day. Why do the tuft-like clouds draw apart high up in the blue sky or float as gentle, transparent veils across the mountaintops? What have the innumerable blades of grass to tell as they break through the dark, moist soil - are they voices from the past, or spirits rising from the kingdom of Hades? And what about these rough boulders -white, grey-blue, pink - or the shards of pottery scattered over the grass?(8) The voices of children at play and the crowing of a rooster echo mysteriously through the fine, rarefied air. Dried-up wells gape like the dark, open mouths of tragic masks, adding depth to the landscape. The skin expands under the warmth of the sun, and then contracts under the cold touch of shade. The autumn breeze plays sweetly with the blades of grass and the asphodels, both of them nourished by the earth's bitter green sap.(9) A profound mystery connects this hour and the light that pervades it with the golden hide of the wild beast, to the convoluted horns and thick fleece of these grazing, ambling sheep, yellow like the colour of time-worn marble, or black like the shadow of that dark rock. Through the agency of this particular hour the mystery of time becomes one with the mystery of space. What irreconcilable elements have merged together here? Wherever one turns, one may see the double-headed hermae of antithesis. Faced with a mystery of this magnitude, the soul no longer needs an explanation, for in the deepening of nature's mystery, the soul undergoes a process, an experience, a 'passion' in the depths of which lies understanding. It is in moments like this, O Doric column, that your mystery is revealed to me. Now I understand: the 'tension' that governs your lines is not meant only to serve the laws of statics, extending natural beauty into a form of art;(10) the grooves of your fluted body are not meant only to distribute light equally across your surface, inserting shade into light and light into shade, so that the tones of your stone shaft blend with the tones of the sky above and the rock below. You are, it seems to me, an animate being thirsting for union as you revolve upon your own axis, your grooves like eyes that strive to retain, within their revolving motion, what has come to pass and to contemplate, full of trepidation, what is about to happen - but this is not all. More than any of these things, this hour reveals that this longed-for union would project and condense the culmination of nature's dramatic mystery within an art form corresponding to nature itself. There is an undecipherable connection between these stories, this bitter grass, these green shadows, these voices that streak the air, the southern breezes, the torn plumes of the clouds, all this dramatic mystery which appears to be composed of irreconcilable opposites; all these are made one in the equation of your grooves. Is not your own form made of irreconcilable opposites held together in perfect balance? And the coldness of the marble, the austerity of your vertical shaft, your parallel lines - have they not merged with the warmth of the sun, with the unsurpassable sensitivity of the spirit, to make you what you are? It was surely in an hour such as this that the artist's mind conceived you. And each time that number establishes the ineffable harmony between that hour and your form, your mystery is reborn. This is what I thought; on an early April day, when I perceived you behind the golden dust rising from the chariot wheels in the slanting rays of the afternoon sun. Or was it on some summer evening, as darkness was spreading across the mountains in the west, enveloping the land, while in the east the sky was streaked with pink? But in this wintry hour I think of you again, O Doric cyma, of the stern music of your form poised high up on the Acropolis, high above the sheer rocks and the clay soil of the olive grove. I reflect upon the winter light falling on your harmonious incurvatures, upon the cool shadows that nestle among them and constitute your darkness. There is something awesome about the austerity, the sharpness, the sensitivity of your shape, rising out of a perfect mathematical formulation.(11) I can visualize the men who wrought you. I can see the robes draped around their beautiful limbs. They have stern brows, furrowed by deep thought. There is sternness too about their eyes, their temples, and their beards. But how is one to bring to mind all the hours of the year, or even of a single day? The spirits that inhabit morning and afternoon, noon and evening? The days of summer and spring, the halcyon days of winter and autumn? The days when the wind blows from the north or the south, the days of Apeliotes, the east wind, and of the summer winds that blow for forty days after the rising of the dog-star? For these are the spirits that will enable us to witness the 'suffering' and the transformation of form and space within the element of time. This journal is by no means complete but does it really matter? Is it not enough if the perusal of what there is helps to make manifest the principle which I believe nature wishes to teach us: nothing exists on its own; everything is part of a total harmony. All things are interconnected; for they are all affected and changed by each other. We can apprehend one thing only through the intermediary of everything else. NOTES 1. - In an attempt to analyse the human act of walking, Rodin remarked admiringly: 'Man is a walking cathedral' (Les cathedrales de France). 2. - The geometry of a place or land is a product of its composition. By composition I mean the nature of the materials that go into its making, and also the nature of the diverse forces that have worked or are still working upon it. The nature of matter has to do with chemistry, which is ruled, like all things, by number. But the operation of external forces (such as fire, water or earthquakes), though it may appear wanton and uncontrolled to human eyes, is really as strictly calculated by nature as the proliferation of the minutest living creatures in the universe. 3. - 'Motionless' in a relative sense only, since this geometry is also affected and influenced, through a reflex process, by the motion of the light and air encompassing it. 4. - Climate, in other words the mobile geometry of a country's atmosphere, derives from its relative position on this planet. A country's position determines its distance from the sun, which changes with the seasons. Climate is thus affected and influenced by this other geometry. The intensity and quality of light is determined by a country's position in relation to the sun, by the angle of the sun's rays and by the quality of the atmosphere. A sentient, empathic nature often ascribes the quality of atmosphere to light itself. 5. Our sentient nature cannot conceive of 'matter' independently of temperature, or the constitution of the atmosphere independently of the intensity and quality of light. A space is perceived to be smaller when it is hot and larger when it is cold. The weight of matter appears to increase with heat. Shape becomes sharper with cold. 6. The profound sense of wonder aroused by the sight of the perfect accord between the air and light of a land and the geometry of its soil compels us to accept the existence of a harmonious unity linking all three elements. How else could one explain the incomparable harmony between the pure, spiritual, perfectly modelled shape of the mountains of Attica, and the fine, mellow air and brilliant light in which they stand? Indeed, I do not think it would be presumptuous to say that this harmony is no accident but the rigorous consequence of the inherent harmony, which informs the whole principle of creation: on the contrary, it would be fully in accord with our innate sense of cosmic harmony. We may therefore accept as an axiomatic truth that the geometry of the ground and the air and light of a country are entirely consonant elements. 7. To recall the words of Heraclitus: 'Yet although the logos is common to all, most men live as if each of them had a private intelligence of his own', prompting Sextus Empiricus' comment: 'And this is nothing else than an explanation of the way in which the entirety of things is arranged. Therefore, insofar as we share in the memory of this we say what is true, but when we depend on private experience we say what is false: (English translation by Philip Wheelwright, Heraclitus, New York, 1964.) 8. - An inexplicable pattern of kinship and contrast links the green vegetation and the red soil with the two colours that adorn ancient Greek vases; black and red. 9. - At moments like this, form and motion take on a strange stillness, becoming static. The vertical line, the horizontal, the oblique, and the point - all seem to become invested with a deepening harmony. 10. - The sensitivity of nature penetrates into the work of art through the sensitivity of the spirit. What appears to be the rectilinear geometry of architecture is in reality the geometry of curves. The theoretical definition of the tensions and equations in these curves, and their translation into matter, can only be achieved by the finest artistic sensibility. 11. - The austerity of the Greek column is of a different nature to the theocratic austerity of the Egyptian column. In the latter, it amounts to a subjection to divine attributes, whereas in the Greek column, it emerges as the product of a spirit that is austere, but also human and free.