- Dream Fragments
av Michael M Nikoletseas
150,-
Seven short stories .A raw look into the tender and terrible deeds of men in relation to other men. By the author of "The Iliad - Twenty Centuries of Translation" and "The Iliad: The Male Totem". Previous editions of this book are in top libraries such as Harvard, Oxford, Princeton, Columbia, One night in late summer we sat in thesquare long past midnight drinking wine [...] We are going to hell. Immigrants, thepestilence of this place. They pick Greeknames, Thanasis, Pavlos, Nikos, hell theyare communists, they have no names, nopapers, no God. We Greek are a dyingrace. There is a solution, what the Italiansdo. What do the Italians do? I interrupted. He jumped up in the zeibekiko stance, arms stretched out. He danced around me, over me, like a bird that is about to attack, yellingWhere the hell do you come fromprofessor, you don't know what the Italians do!They fucking drown them out in the ocean.You don't know, professor?and you say you are my friend!You say you love me! Bullshit!They drown the bastards. They drown them!They have no caffeneio in their country, no tavernas, they have no bread, they come here and boss us around!We are sheep, the lamb of God, hewhispered.They drown the bastards! he yelled at thetop of his voice, a manly voice, thehelpless whimper of a child that ispunished.He stuck his nose on my face. Now he wascalm, his voice course, trembling. His largeblack eyes wet, pleadingYou do not know, palikari.You sa you love me, ha.Your a liar, you know nothing.Exhausted, he kept dancing and chanting, staggering in the empty square until hedrifted out of sight in the narrow darkstreets of the village.I sat in the square for a long time.Witness to a crucifixion. I went back homeshattered, whisperingI know Cuckoo my good friend, I know, Iknow.(The Poutanaki) Antar on his knees, now lifting his arms upto his ears, now kissing the wet earth, anapparition that the river had spewed, facered with mud, his huge hands fumblingthe sky, lips, moving incessantly... la ilahaillallahu, la ilaha illallahu! The thunderingvoice of last night, now, humbled, grateful, a whimper. He moved slowly, exhausted, yet his face radiating in the tender milkylight, peace. He had found Him.I knelt besides him, my shoulder touchinghis shoulder, instantly shrouded into Antar's prayer. I stayed there next to him for along time.The sun slowly chased the mist, crossed the river, saw two men on theirknees facing the caves on the side ofAhmetaga, singing..(Antar of Ahmetaga) Now he held up a photo of a boy aroundfive wearing a cap with bunny ears. Ilooked at him nodding, waiting for acomment, which never came. He was silentlooking at the picture of the boy and thenlooking at me. His eyes got wet and tearsrun down his cheeks. I remained silent too.Now his body sank into the chair, as if paralyzed.We drank some more wine but heremained motionless looking down on thefloor of the yard.Tell me about the children in the attic, he said.I did not reply.And a while later: And the puppies? he asked. His lips weredrooping and his eyes were round, frozen.We drank more wine in silence.(Fotis) He turned aside again, his whole facecontracted, his lips quivering, the snout ofan animal trying to smell the dark; alwaysdid this when he came to the mill. Thosemoments the pain on his face was gone, this was an act of lovemaking...(Antar of Ahmetag)