It’s like him, of course,

as a tall and perfectly handsome youth,with the joy of immortality in his eyes,with his scented black hair,the passers-by would stare at himand one would ask the other if he knew him,and if he were a Greek of Syria, or a stranger. But some,who watched with greater attention,would understand and stand aside;and as he vanished…

At least we’re sailing our seas,the waters of our own countries – Cyprus, Syria, Egypt –waters we know and love.Why so silent? Ask your heart:didn’t you too feel happierthe further we got from Greece?What’s the point of fooling ourselves?That wouldn’t be properly Greek, would it?It’s time we admitted the truth:we’re Greeks also – what else…

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…

going to the houses of Christians,especially during times of mourning or festivity.I stood in the corridor. I didn’t wantto go further inside because I noticedthat the relatives of the deceased looked at mewith obvious surprise and displeasure.They had him in a large roomand from the corner where I stoodI could catch a glimpse of it:…

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And now I sit here feeling hopeless.I can’t think of anything else: this fate gnaws my mind –because I had so much to do outside.When they were building the walls, how could I not have noticed!But I never heard the builders, not a sound.Imperceptibly they have closed me off from the outside world.

it’s worth your mentioning Mevis in your work—the famous Mevis, unquestionablythe best looking, the most adored young manin all Antioch. No one of the othersliving his kind of life, no one of them gets paidwhat he gets paid. To have Mevisjust for two or three days, they often giveas much as a hundred staters. I…

and sat down here. I’ve been sitting without reading,without speaking. Completely alone in the house,who could I talk to?Since nine o’clock when I lit the lampthe shade of my young bodyhas been haunting me, reminding meof shut scented rooms,of past passion – what daring passion.And it’s also brought back to mestreets now unrecognizable,bustling night clubs…

half wrought by my own mind,went into the brilliant nightand drank strong wine,the way the champions of pleasure drink.

where Nero lies fast asleepcallous, happy, peaceful,in the prime of his body’s strength,in the fine vigour of youth.But in the alabaster hall that holdsthe ancient shrine of the Aenobarbihow restless the household deities!The little gods trembleand try to hide their insignificant bodies.They’ve heard a terrible sound,a deadly sound coming up the stairs,iron footsteps that shake…

Sophocles wrote it in a deeply philosophic mood.How much we’ll tell down there, how much,and how very different we’ll appear.What we protect here like sleepless guards,wounds and secrets locked inside us,protect with such great anxiety day after day,we’ll reveal freely and clearly down there.’‘You might add,’ said the sophist, half smiling,‘if they talk about things…