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11âadayitoyci sal .EKrrlGGEDoatl 'AyartyroS I`. Toonuv "O Sp6peog (M~)cMug ru( 8p0pu) £K.LOTIKOLCOLKOI: AQ(N KYPl~IAIAl OELLA.1NIKi l 198 A011 NA 19)8 ' A MODERN GREEK LITERATURE ANNUAL ATHENS VOLUME TWO 1983 C ON T E T Page 2-11 A Survey of Greek American Poets 12-14 Poems in Translation (from English 44-47 to Greek) 16, Poems in Translation (from Greek 20-32 to English) 15-16 Poem in the original English 17-19 The Greek Painter N. Athineou- Coletsis 35-43 A Survey of Books (in Greek) 33, 51, Activities and News 53, 55 Passim Books Received * The Illustrations in this issue have been borrowed from various sources. The bird-illustrations are by the late Benjamin Chee Chee, a Woodland Indian painter, featured recently in The Graduate, the Univ. of Toronto Alumni Magazine. A S U RVE Y o f GREE K AMERICAN POE TS x** THE SURVEY concerns poets who are either based in New York City or live in the vi- cinity. The poets are quite different from one another, some are newly arrivals while others have lived most of their years in or around New York, some have published their books in Greece and others in New York, a couple write in traditional verse while the majority write in free verse. Yet, all of them write in Greek, on themes which touch (directly or by implication) upon both Greece and America and thus the- y can be used in a critical collage, as a kind of tribute to both nature, which fa- vors collage - tree leaves will easily fra- ternize with pop bottles and torn newsprint in a stream of water - and poetry which is a mirror of nature. From the Survey are excluded poets whom I have discussed elsewhere: Andonis Decaval- les and Nikos Spanias. "The solution of all problems is the end of this book", says Dionysis Marave- yas [CEna (One) (Athina: Dhioyenis, 1982)], in "Postscript". It would seem that the poet has decided to drop poetry (tempora- rily or for ever) either because he has found sufficient illumination or because he has stumbled upon an impenetrable dark- ness. Yet, this poem is not the final one /3/ in the book, which ends with "Halcyon Days". The ambiguity as to the poet's intentions vis-a-vis poetry remains, al- though the general title of the book, Ena, suggests only the start of a sequen- ce of poetry collections. Many of Maraveyas's poems are rather abstract and loose syllogisms in search of meanings, but there is a sharpness of vision and what one might call a roguish kind of humor and a feeling for idiomatic Greek that make this book by a still young poet remarkable. Two samples: Since our imagination, too, is in the service of sensual pleasure the seed of compromise won't be long to take root inside me. ** Anyway (here I wink at you), I take my spoils and go home. I have more things to do. One must grow happy, after all .. . There are also whole poems, like "The friend's letter", "The credo of the month", "Christmas", "Tuesday at daybreak" (first part), "The bet", harmonies of defiance and acquiescence, impetuosity and reserve, that remind us of Rimbaud and other youth- ful poets that have bitten deep into the apple of wisdom.- %%%%% Makis Tzilianos who heads an experi- mental union of Greek American writers, cultivates the sonnet and thus continues /4/ a long Eptanisian tradition (Tzilianos comes from Kefalonia). His verses, so far, are contained in Empiries (Experi- ences) (1975) and Anises Fones (Uneven Voices) (1979), privately printed. In the first book, the older sonnets either were cohzposed at Kefalonia or reflect the personal and familial world of the poet which he left behind when he emigrated first to South Africa and then to North America. These poems are more lyrical and more respectful of the rules of the son- net form than the other poems in the first and those in the second collection, which are more prosaic, more concerned with so- cial issues and more negligent of the ru- les of versification. Another problem is created by the use of strange and forced compounds which Tailianos has a habit of coining. Yet, some of these "sonnets" sur- vive for their genuine feeling and breath of inspiration. "The dead nonna" (grandmo- ther), "I'll come, and a carnation...", "Africa 1960;", "The song of rain", "To the invalid woman of the 2nd World War", "Hu- man weakness", from Empiries. The poems of Anises Fones are heavily anchored in settings and events that derive from the poet's life in America and his journeys to South Africa and Greece. Two excerpts: In San Domingo I spent more than a summer day and from the Redskins I bought objects of craft, chains of silver and bowls of clay of a supposedly indigenous art. (A note informs us that San Domingo /5/ is an Indian village in New Mexico). We emigrate like birds of prey, then with sadness we turn and say to ourselves that we've hardly left from our country, a paternal voice still pulls us - a magnetic breast. Our nostalgia's clepsydra makes the choice. Panos Vozikis has taken good care of his three books of poetry which he has pu- blished privately: Liofgla (Leaves of Olive) (1981), Elliniki Yi (Greek Earth) and Kath' Odhon (On the road) (1983, 1984), all three printed in New York, the second and third in bilingual editions (translations by Ni- cos Spanias and Tassos Roussos, respective- ly; covers by Nicos Ikaris and Makis Pano- rios). The epigrams of the first book show imagination but the flashes of genius are rare. Most epigrams are facile, in some the logic is questionable, a few hit their tar- get: We say "I think" con fi rmi ng o ur un cer tai nt y. Men are like candles pledges of a brief accord. If justice takes off its boots and dresses in white let's provide ourselves with more crutches. /6/ The material in the other two collecti- ons is also uneven. Two lines promise a lot, then the effect is spoiled by a dozen indif- ferent lines. Here is one of the more intel- ligent pieces of Greek Earth: "My fate" My transatlantic schizophrenia turns to thin air upon a reef of the Ionian sea. The airplane's psyche rejects me belching me out onto the airfield right after take-off. I was made to step on the gas but not to fly, alas! Christos Tsiamis is also an immigrant Greek-American poet (who came to the U.S. in his teens) but his poetry is free of the cliches or the self-pity usually found in the poetry of immigrant poets. The gene- ral epigraph of his unpretentious book Poly- tropo (Multifarious, or Variegated) (Patra: "Ostraka", 1979), from Octavio Paz, and the epigraph of the book's first section from the Greek surrealist poet Andreas Embirikos, seem to announce a kind of poetic storm. The impression is reinforced by the first poem, "Zazz", ingeniously laid out to represent a zazz piece. An interesting experiment which approximates concrete poetry is also found at the end of the collection, two brief exclamational poems, "Two rituals" and "Death". In the second section of the book, it is refreshing to read sensual ver- ses that are passionate without being banal: "SÇunday" The cup of boiled milk in the hand that leafs the newspaper and delays time, sip by sip. The other hand is outside time in the world of being and non-beingy it stirs waves in your hair traces seas and oceans plains and mountains, vanishes inside your warm geography. The three poems of the third section, "The window of silence", are more cryptic and informed with drama, while the poems of the fourth section, "In the teeth of fire", seem to have a broader existenti- alist and social reference. In several poems of this collection, the transitions from thought to thought are rather abrupt (not an unusual element in poetry, anyrway) We would have preferred a smoother pace in the progression of these poems. On the whole, Tsiamis's concern is with the fun- ction of time, the subtle and unobtrusive transformations of things through time, the sudden contractions or expansions of experience, and such. "Sleeplessness, I" If the light is the sea, I remain at the bottom./ The waves do not reach me./ Objects, layers of skin settle down./ I hold the water's volume vertically, the light/ is in the mercy of gravity./ The waves do not carry me. /8/ The first book of poems by Manolis Polentas, O Ayios Misanthropos (The Saint- ly Misanthrope) (Athina: Iridhanos, 1983), does not offer us protoleia. The voice is mature and the poet very much aware of li- fe's contradictions. "I am small/ and yet I cannot fit/ inside my borders", is the untitled preamble of twenty-five titled poems, some of which suggest that the re- verse may be also true, that the borders allotted by nature to the human species firmly confine both the common and the un- common man: They chose ten soldiers - the best of the lot- for the great mission. Concealed behind a coffee-house, he was trying to carve history with his nails, already seeing the ten soldiers at the edge of the stone. Two centuries later they found him carving - still young and tireless. They tied him up and started happily on their return. The stone smiled. A little farther on, downhill, all eleven of them fell dead. This poem, "Ten and one", in the guise of a mini-myth, reminds us of similar poems of Ritsos and is an exception among the o- ther, more personal and confessional pieces. Polentas's existential anxieties are tested against the thoughts and examples of impor- tant liminal men, like Nietzsche, Kazantza- kis, Seferis, and Karyotakis. The poems of Polontas are in the mainstream of contempo- rary poetry, with a typical message:"Look, reader, how sensitive I am in trying to co- pe with an insensitive world", but the po- ems are not commonplace, and the collection even ends on a positive note: "The last words of the Saint" (And when Baudelaire was asking his soul where she wanted to live and she replied "outside this world, anywhere", when Eliot tormented his own soul in the Atlantic and she fell into a pen si ve sil1ence , my father adorned my ear with a sprig of basil and said: "It never smells the same in foreign lands"). I have reached, by now, this rock. Shake it if you can. The "unshakable" rock seems to be Greece, or rather a fond image of Greece, treasured in Polentas's mind, for his material home is still America. %%%%% Strange is the title of Yorghos Veis's book of poems, O Dhrakos tou Mesimeriou (The Dragon of Noon) (Athina: Ipsilon, 1983). Strange, but somehow appropriate to the cha- racter of the poems, small explosions of that creative-destructive impulse which mo- tivates the young. Irony and a sense of hu- mor seem to occasionally still the picture, but it is an e'lan vital that mostly blows through these verses: You, small wonders poems of mine, that can, even in the rain, catch fire. /IO/ Veis lives both the fragmentation and decomposition of language and the exhila- ration with words. He is a follower of Ma- yakovski as well as Ginsberg. These poems were written in Greece but carry something of the American intoxication with speed (so popularized by the cinema and the video cul- ture). We hear of air balloons that are sur- prised and fly up, detached from their bas- kets, of bedsheets that grow into paintings by the morning, of erotic experiences that change face: "in my hand my semen's waste becomes a global geography". Some of the better poems: "Bending", "My own bridge", "Excursion (with the lan- guage) on the week-end", the untitled poems of pp. 28 (first part), 31, 33, 34, 36, "I think of you without purpose, just like that", "The space eye", "First national", "A story", "The blond knight". Most poems take off, a few settle down: No other plans for the night that comes, let the little horses run and vanish inside the green of your hands, I will remain last to watch the lies lest they turn to truths. Now, Veis is writing poems with New York settings. He finds the city big and implacable but still a suitable arena for his fights and flirtations with words. He "sips the present" as if it were his "cof- fee" and is ready to dig deep into the dark "soil" of his new environment. %%%%% /II/ Anastasis Vistonitis is, like Veis, a newcomer in America. He is also an admi- rer of Poe to whom he has dedicated one of his poetry collections, Alone, and whom he resembles facially. The poems of Vistonitis's Tefres (Ashes) (Thessaloniki_: N. Poria, 1980) are uniformly gloomy and most of them lack sharpness, but particular lines here and there arrest our attention: "The white wounds of the street lamps/ sink into the sea. Eve- ning of Chinese ink"; "The sun - an embal- med hawk./ The sea - a wall of water"; "In- side me the day arms the night"; "Past mid- night I return home,/ the wind hunts the sha- dows,/ silence describes fear,/ darkness un- stitches thought". Whole poems also stand out: "lInside",l "News, 2", "1:10 a.m.", "The noon in the glass". The last piece of refres, with the title "Delirium tremens" is prophetic of the book- let of prose pieces Kataghoyi (Origin) (Athi.- na: Estia, 1984), which develops thoughts and moods found in Vistonitis's earlier wri- tings. The atmosphere of melancholia gravis is underlined by the cover illustration (pro- bably borrowed from a 19th c. print) of a man holding his head, half bent in despond- ence. The imagery of the prose pieces deri- ves on the one hand from the fluid landsca- pes of a world in limbo and on the other from the poet's obsession with himself. But we should also see Vistonitis's work within the context of other Thessalonian writers, like Pentzikis, loannou, Vassilikos, Papadhimitri- ou, whose style is also self-biting. We have no right to tell the young poet "let some pleasant breezes intrude into the gloom", for one cannot prescribe to another a given philosophy of life. Yet, we may urge a still young poet to make his gloom more habitable, sharpen his imagery, let more crystals appear in the penumbra of his work. 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Poems 1941-1976 (San Francisco, 1977). Trans. G. Thaniel. Harold Norse lived (as an expatriate American), from 1953 to 1968, in various countries of Europe, North Africa and the Middle East. The poem "Addio" finishes a series of poems on Greece with the title "The Greek Experience". Other poems in this series are dedicated to Greeks like Nikos Stangos, Nanos Valaoritis, and Kostas Taktsis (associated with the vanguard literary magazine of the '60's, Pali), whom Norse obviously met while in Greece. /IS/ Jacqueline swartz Walking in the Park in Athens *** Walking in the park in Athens, island in the traffic. Trees - oranges, dates and jasmine- and heady smells in the cooling air. Expecting something maybe peace, Revelation, a good cry, Desting in the orange balls hanging heavy as the many breasts of a fertile goddess. Once again surprised that the city had put up markers pointing to different exits the palace, the square, the traffic, each a world away. Then whoosh, like a heavy branch falling. It was a peacock, incandescent blue neck moving in and out like a serpent, waddling nonchalantly, indolently, not even in a zoo. Shimmering among the dirty trees as its tail sweeps the ground like a broom of soft blue leaves. The few strollers arm in arm don't even look at the amazing bird, but I stare still as a waiting animal expecting meaning, epiphany, pur~pose, /I6/ Revelation, a good cry. But there is only this bird and the sight of its arrogant beauty. Nikos Karouzos Endless Winter To Kimon Friar Perhaps there is a moment of music superior to the gunfiring of the futile: our hearts. Death dies of boredom in desolate places and gasps. Such is the hopeless land of the intellect. We are drunk with serenity we are faithful to deaf-mute time. We reap ideas useless in their magnificence, unrestrained descriptions of war, academies of emotions, impotent ministries and solemnities to compete with the honest cockroach that scurries on the floor with so much nostalgia. There is no plan for any terrifying over- throw nor can St. Anthong of the Wilderness help us. We must continue the dreadful journey. No harbor exists for us to anchor. We proceed fruitlessly in a sea of seconds. I am not the competitor of rain, I am not the competitor of pity. I listen to music and squander time. -Trans. K. Friar THE PAINTER NICOLETTE ATHINEOU-KOLETSIS* Past-Present-Future Pencil on paper 17- X I5 inches We are born and grow full of hopes and dreams for the future, to realize (when we reach a certain age) that we are only passing through. As the wheel of ages turns and the tunnel of the beyond pulls us in slowly, the effort to hold on to the present becomes strenuous and painful. Tired and disappointed, we turn to our "maker". -N. A.-C. Nicolette Athineou-Coletsis describes her method of painting as follows: OL Ouv860sLC Mou (figurative-surreali- stic) axoho9o80v utia opLoulvnl nopela rou uOU ERLTpÉnEL va 6001600 OROLOv6i ROTE i- vaxd MOU oE ToLXoypagia: 1. ARA6 oxiToo (ndvo o'Éva 86ua 6 uLa L6Éa), 2. Construc- tion lines (6uou TouogErd To 84ua Mou, up6- oowa 4 avrLuxcCyEVG) 3. METaoOpa Tou ypay- LUxoU SIxTUOU GE XGah Xapti YLa Iny OoxAdh- poan Tou oxiSLOU ME emOGxtdLoCLg xAR., 4. Metagopd Tou TEAbegivou oxÉ8Lou oe xagBa I masonite, 5. HapaoXUsu XpoMaTO9: TitoCOG Bactxd Xpoyala xaL anoxpoosLg Toug, 6. 010- xA6pOCan tOU Rivaxa.- 2 di'i'''i:''ii'l''"''i ·· Charcol iiL~.~i fe model (3 minutes pose 1824 Xinches::: /IS/ *One of the Greek-Canadian artists who have exhibited their work, in Toronto, Ottawa, and Kingston, Ontario, under the aegis of the Hellenic-Canadian Federation of Ontario and other cultural societies. The matter was dealt with in The Amaranth, No. 8 (1984), unde.r "Activities & News". /20/ Maria Lazou I have no sound, no substance+ I no longer have a voice. Breath seems to be the only thing left to me. I still need it in order to demolish the walls of Jericho and the world of myth. Perhaps, when I die my last breath will help swell the sails of ships ~Line from departing for Colchis. a song by @@@@@ D. Savvo- Passion Week poulos. Greece, my sweet Spring we bury you every night in amusement clubs, with gardenias. Loudly we mourn for you - a decorated epitaphios - and resurrect you immediately after with bursts of balloons. @@@@@ Night will come again *** Night will come again you'll lock the front door see that the faucets do not drip brush your teeth with care. Night will come again you'll close the window shutters wind the clock as far as it goes. The slippers will be at the corner of the bed your dreams upon the embroidered pillow. Tomorrow, you'll be here again. Desertion is punished with death. From Mia Zoi Maria (Maria for a whole life) (Athina: Dhodhoni, 1982), pp. I6, 22, 47. Trans. Maria Massia. /21/ Christos Roumeliotakis Grammar '57 At your door step gou spoke to me of the future tense and I loved it in your room you taught me of the present tense and I loved it on the road carved out for me by your absence I have learned the past tense and feel hurt. @@@e@@@@ Then you came up x** Then you came up with your hair with your eyes with two shoots of almond in your hands we had fish and drank sunkissed wine. The next day I surrendered - no need of a Judas and if you want to know about the prisoner's sorrow I will remember you with despair you must know that. e@@@@@@@@@@@@@ Winter is early this year Wednesday, September Seventeen I open my bag with the winter clothes my jacket, my trousers two sweaters and in the inside pocket a receipt from a registered letter /22/ (The answer never came) I haven't expected such an early winter. From Klisti Thalassa (Confined Sea) (Athina, 1979), pp. 8, 23, 29. Thans. G. Thaniel. /23/ Ector Kaknavatos Trajectory Now from inside my chest you pass with openings of solitude leaving gold coins like sunlight through wicker baskets whose bottoms were ruined by silence, otherwise uncommemorated in these places. For that white gap in between the three and the four I put up with rainstorms with the blood of two porcupines behind the thickets and a genuflexion during the days of the Akathistos, so as to skirt death or September's band of sworn soldiers or the headkerchief of noon stretched between the sleep of the horses. Thus you will wait for May, July perhaps even August maybe two decades with coleoptera and even longer perhaps a whole century in case I come out of waters altered and there be light and there be darkness the first day of creation. Spa'ng F`light /24/ Exca vati on *** The word Kea shone all over the sea. Vaulted was the tomb. The word was Kea. Smeared with oil epicurean now coal was still shining just to see not to speak to melt. The ring was gone. Two Hellenistic earth orbits the last of Amyntas a few tomb provisions, not rare and some crystals of uric acid a bowl, signed "Dometios"; the grief of the pickaxes cannot be described... O poetry, pot-making with vowels you fled like a bullet on the car-road more of a swing than Seriphos facing the rocks, the void, and I, the sistrum. From Dhiigisi (Narration) (Athina: Kimena, l98I), pp. 25 and 44. Trans. E. S. Phinney. Sun1 Bird /25/ Kostas Ghouliamos Crossing on Blood, III I shall live .In some strange basement room With the primeval moon on the wall The dusty icons SAnd the devil in the cracks I shall live With an old yellowish book Evoking the seamen of my country And, occasionally, the hands of Kargotakisf Or those plastic afternoons at Tripolis I shall live Like an insect which bleeds And writes. Kostas Karyotakis (I896-I928), the most famous suicide poet of modern Greece. ca(@@@@ From the Dampness of the Square, I He drinks coffee on the square Evening voices are heard The traffic policeman mops the asphalt road The young gesticulate Hide the bullets in their mouths He searches for his breath farther back The unknown soldier Statue or person Will continue his night.f The empty spaces in the typing reflect the printing in the original. @@@@@ /26/ From a Station The train suckles white landscapes Ancient trees And vanishes The train has two eyes Dictates the latest news And becomes the prophet of reality. Again the girl with the tranquil veins Again the adolescent with the morning execution Again the orchestra with the statues And an intoxicated Station waiting For the train which is understood Without any doubt. From Nevrasthenika Topia (Neurotic Land- scapes) (Athina: Karanasis, I984), pp. 21, 35, 46. Trans. G. Thaniel. /27/ MMMabe~~j~ Dhimitris Papakonstantinou The Stairs of no Return Herds spring out from ice-cold traps - dull eyes, gigantic claws, petrified faces. You must get used to the twists, in order to be saved and to save. Your body. (As for the soul, it is of course useless to speak.) Archangel, what would become of me without your invincible wings? They lift me away from the theater of wretched bipeds, and deposit me on the bank of pure vision. There, the gentle child embraces me, he is ready to smooth the pain of my wounds, to give me heart, to strengthen my faith in man. No deceit or mask will be able to destroy this child. Together we'll descend the stairs of no return. @@@@@ The Silence k** I have spoken so much. Even the white looks black. Even the height is depth. Everything is reversible, and the cont~radictions are beyond count. I have grown weary of ridiculing your deceitful masks, of dishevelling them, as the flowering wind the gardens of my childhood. (There exist echoes and roars, inside us, /28/ hermetically personal, up to the narrow gate.) The silence stabs me very deep, but I prefer it to your cynical theater. From I Apekdhisi (Denudation, or Complete Shedding of Clothes) (Athina: Filipotis, I982), pp. 5I,7. Trans. E. S. Phinney. /29/ Stylianos Harkianakis Death Is My brother Death is not a black angel, death is my brother. At every moment our journeys, parallel and equated, mark out an ideal relation thait is gi ven and wells up inside me, because death is not a black angel, death is my faithful my twin brother. - Melbourne, Feb. I2, I977. i(c@@@@ Litang of the Neglected For young men who dream with gaping eyes wild wi th fever and ignorance of any danger, the muses willingly assent to everything, even to any exaggeration. For young girls with night still in their hair, the tart fragrance of myrtle or mastic in their mouths, admiration and love will never lack. Yet for women grown old and ill, for the bitterly silent or inanely gabbling, who will speak? For patient servant-girls with swollen feet and thick stockings that year after year deform their shoes, who will speak? /30/ For the sad nurse who comes and goes with an idiotic stare from deep insight into suffering and from obligatory silence, who will speak? For all these and so many others that remain unmentioned by poets in their inhumane partiality (inhumane get so humane) I always save a place in the Liturgy immediately before the "especially for our Lady most holy, most pure...". - Sydney, May 20, I977. @@@@@@@ The Other rneffable the other neither minor nor major. An unnamed yearning he is my nearest god no matter how familiar or remote. The more strange the other the more astounding he is this Lord of mine and God. Merely to finger him redeems me - ecstatic before the fullness of the world. - Perth, May 24, I976. @a@@@e@@ Solidarity It was a night when I'd forgotten to sleep. Not that I wasn't tired; my fatigue surpassed /3I/ any I'd ever known before. Yet I was undermined by the convi.ction that sleep was useless now. Grief caused so much of the fatigue, I needed a tonic as strong as thought. Cabarets stay open till dawn, factories oppress their night shifts, streets continue their dealings with policemen, drunks and ambulances, violence invades somewhere just like death, and the Holy Mountain is a peninsula ++ of an all-night vigil of tears... - Thessaloniki, Jan. 20, l97I. From Homa ke Stachti (Dust and Ashes) (Athina, I978), pp. 37, 49, 55, 59-60. Trans. Peter Bien. The quotation is from the Greek-Orthodox Liturgy of St. John Chrysostom. What comes immediately be- fore is the consecration of the host by the priest, who then chants: "...We offer this spiritual sacri- ficial worship for those who repose in faith, our Forefathers, Fathers, Patriarchs, Prophets, Apostles, Preachers, Evangelists, Martyrs, Confessors, Ascetics, and for every righteous soul made perfect in the Faith; especially, for our most holy, pure, blessed, glorious Lady, the Mother of God and ever-virgin Mary." ++ The allusion, in the last two lines, is to the monks of Athos and their nocturnal penitential devotions. /32/ E. C. Gonatas The Fig Tree I bent and kissed her. "I am the wind", I whisper- edl softly into her ear. "Let us go behind that fig tree. I will blow some air, and its leaves will start falling smoothly all around us, so that no indiscreet eye is go~ing to see us when I embrace ouI". Picking out of her hair a small coin, she showed it to me, and then, looking further towalrds the spot where the single fig tree grew upwards, shie began playing the coin in the palm of her hand. "The answer is written here", she said! and -threw the coin high in the air. It fe.ll sideways into the lake, close to us. I immediately dived into the water. In two seconds, I had reached bottom and searched all over the place, pushing the tall weeds aside; yet the coin had vani- shed. Sad, I decided to surface, but first I extra- cted from inside the mire a silver spoon to take to her. I emerged from the water holding the spoon tight in my hand. "I used to eat with it as a child", I was about to tell her, but saw that she was gone; and the coin for which I was looking all this time shone bright on the pebbles of the shore. I understood that it would be useless to call her back. After all, I did not know her name. I lifted the coin from the ground and walked towards the fig tree. Coming near it, I noticed with horror that it did not have any leaves. It looked complete- ly desiccated, and out from the cavities of its trunk whole armies of ants would emerge before creeping in again. From To Varathro (The Dark Pit) (Athina, Stighmi, I984 pp. 62-63. Trans. G. Thaniel. rI'IPTOY AANIHA TIO HA PA P @'A O TA ETIIOETA 170IH.11AT4~- 196i8-1983 dedregy 'Ex40ay avna0eoolpiry ~55ry~.ïi AB>;a 3809.lB~o TIPOSIEPOS 1984 *~ A8HrNA COLLECTION DE L.t'INSTITUT FRAWCAIS W'AlT~hAES ai STRATIS MYRIVILIS · ~ IIL'ÉCRIVAIN ET L'HOMME a> I I ~ATRAVERS LES REMA\NIE.MENTS ET LES VAZRIANTES U II DES SEPT PREMIERES ÉiDDIONS DE- SON ROMAN eHIZfill EN TA pr· JEANNE BOUDOURIS O ATHOÈNES 1983 A C TIV I T IES & N E WS x***x* PEACE - University College Symposium Seven, University of Toronto. January 21- 25, 1985. LECTURES with Peter Richardson, F. D. Manchester, Hans de Groot, Peter Morgan, Stephen Clarkson/ Bruce Kidd, George Thani- el, Douglas Freake, Max Allen, Bernie Lucht, Annual Peace Lecture with Kenneth Hare/ Wil- liam Blisset, Mel Watkins, Anne Lancashire, Ursula Franklin/ W. Keith, Anatol Rapoport, Student Pugwash Debate with John Polanyi. PERFORMANCES: Cabaret Performance of Peacing it Together/ Strategical Musical Weapons (Bob Bossin), Peace Pieces (U of T Music), Animated Film Festival/ Dead Clothes (U.C.Dra.ma), The War Game (Film by Peter Wat- kins)/ Robert Barton (Storytelling), Brecht Songs and Poems (with Douglas Rain, Beth-Anne Cole, Jenny Phipps), Feature Film. -contact-compus-contact- BOOK EXHIBIT and ygggy the Canadian Pre- PARNHASSOSCULTURAL SOCIETY mriere Of an exhi- AND CONTINUINGEDUCATIOiN --- bition of drawings H - ILLUSTRATED PUBLIC LECTUREby s r i o s f roshima and Nagasa- DIE.~Illz~EMitE.A k i . AND SOME OF ITS A MBIGillIIES G. Thaniel repeated PROFESSOR GEORGE THANIEL (with some changes) his lecture on Peace SATUR1DAY MARCH 16. 1985 in Ottawa . 7.30 PM ~ -- SIMARD HALL. ROOMi 135 /35/ M IA E II K O nH HEH B I BA~InN Ped~Vv TSaverdxn, A n av 8 p dx o a (ASAva, 1983). TO BIBAIAPAKI aur6 (Rou wag GtaBiDaoC O X. c $$tC HaroahlSng) napoucod(EL GTO EEiquhh6 tou yptMULXi OXi- 6Lo Tou AvGpit AEBSETE xaL HCPtiXEL 6UO ULWPig OELPig noonudrov, "'O HUPET6g" xaL "XaunAdve NEUPtxi", un6pLTTG tunwsuivy GE Gaf6ECs ROU 6Cv apti~UOGVTat OL odIXOt Tou TCaverdxn Eivat entypauwaroxol xat Scixvouv uta (mypt 0- wi 8td8gEan.) Ataxpiv~ouIIE xt Avav undxmQo aL~to8notcuI6. Evor pexp6 nou)t or (coypa H Ii·pa cou yEac TO KW10KSpl ayaxa vo P)Lci (a81- Mi 86VTE GKdA)OU (aE. Ipoarr 10) 18) Elo'ivag oupervirrxoc, fol6t Tdoepa - riooEpa ME TO IloUXEL golt(£@< O jhso<; orpXlca vrr (lr. Ta poi;X pag tvai - Lval %g%%% 9%%% BaoaiX Totad~, E t ooe 4 (A9Ava: HAA8pov, 1984). 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"TO REiaut TEC DiOv4G" "TO HOPpI Ing EAdyng" 6muoC ro ano5ppQTiK6 TTOUhi oi spihot piaq (pe(youv larpViKG nou enterpE(pOVTOC Ci' taV KOitVO KGaOKolpi ora partoi OpioKEL YKptptIopivr Tol cpiuAa p' IVO KpfJO KEhi OTTAV KaIpit oi nou pi' Ova A6App~a aAM(iouv 6vopa rqAhttptvo AeuKO AtOipt EXOUv XGGec KOTpaKuAatI o~rn onunr}i tXouv Xoegi ot TO KoppI Emphetv. rl viiXTa oav EtpoiKaOa TouC otpyei aEC EKPOAAC To Koppii notopophito yupva cro 5thra rou 8avatrou Hio TOUQPEKL6p OGOT~~ AAier oov napiivopiot oi cpihot piaq yupvotiv ocplyyouv ro piaXaipt nouoav povelobvo KOprEpouiv rTLEymWViS ocuvA CIjI) %%%%%% %%%, /39/ rLodVvT MIILAnr, Z ea or 6 M eanrru.A OL (ABliva: Y- SLhov, 1984) . H aL~to8poxT ToUTO RhauRaT UE ~EE'pouho xaL onced h0 and rov a. KaXoxipp (Rdvw a OEivaxec TOU b. ripou) E- nLBEDGL0vEL TO 09~ TOU r. HGTEAD crav 66HLMOU ROLOT4 Utoa crouC noonvic tnc YEVL C~ tOU '70. 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