Revenge is an admission of pain; a mind that is bowed by injury is not a great mind. The man who has done the injury is either stronger than you or weaker: if he is weaker, spare him, if stronger, spare yourself.
Anne Carson from Men in The Off Hours
Cy Twombly, Leda and the swan (part iv), 1980. / poster with a black and white reproduction of a work dated 1975, folded 14.6 cm from above 17 ¾ x 19 in., 45 x 48.3 cm.
from If Not, Winter: Fragments of Sappho tr. Anne Carson
Cy Twombly, ACHILLES MOURNING THE DEATH OF PATROCLUS, 1962
Joseph Beuys, Iphigenie Vitrine, 1961-1985
Joseph Beuys, “Vitrine IPHIGENIE IV,” 1961 -1976, 1961-1976, 1979, 1985, Head, 1961–1976 Head, 1961–1976 Ja, ich habe …, 1979 Joyce with Sled, 1985.
From If Not, Winter: Fragments of Sappho, translated by Anne Carson (Vintage, 2003)
So who’s that pretty boy, soaked in cologne,
grinding against you in the rose bushes
near that pleasant grotto, Pyrrha?
Is it for him that you do up your blonde hair,
stylishly simple? Ah, how often
he will be in anguish over fickle faith
and fate, and be caught off guard – astounded –
as if at the sea abruptly churned up by a dark gale.
He may be enjoying you now – your radiance –
always believing in your easy-going love, unaware
of the deceptive way the wind blows.
Miserable are they who’ve never basked in your glow.
As for me – see my dripping clothes hanging on the holy temple wall as an offering
for the powerful god of the sea? Well, they show that I’ve survived that particular storm.
Anne Carson
Joe Green
Letter from a Dog Before Troy
Dear Penelope,
It’s windy here. Nine years in a tent on the beach.
Ulysses says they know what they’re doing.
Right.
Nine years and for what?
What’s nine years to them?
Most of my life.
I’m tired. Don’t even ask me about the gods.
There’s a limit to loyalty.
But you already know that.
I know about the puppies.
You should have told me.
She told me, of course.
I don’t care.
Just get them out of Ithaca.
By the time you read this
I’ll be gone. I have..what..four more years?
Going to someplace where there are no men.
No gods.
Maybe a few rabbits.
Little Bristling Soul 