It’s funny, what time can do. It’s been two years and here we are, so different, yet still so very much the same. Mea anima.
What I didn’t yet understand was the importance of
taste and timing. Books are like people. Some look deceptively
attractive from a distance, some deceptively unappealing; some are easy
company, some demand hard work that isn’t guaranteed to pay off. Some
become friends and say friends for life. Some change in our absence — or
perhaps it is we who change in theirs — and we meet up again only to
find that we don’t get along any more.
Nothing is sweeter than passionate love. All else, all happiness is secondary. Even honey I willingly spit from my mouth. Nossis says this. She, however, who has never been befriended by Cypris, will never tell amongst her flowers, which are the roses.
Νοσσίς / Nossis (3rd century B.C)
This the most famous epigram by Nossis. Cypris here is Venus.
You poisoned me. And for the first time in what seems like forever, I am rid of the caustic ennui that was your ice eyes looking at me, saying you felt sorry for him. You cannot begin to know the ways in which he is countless times the better man. You cannot even conceive of his goodness. My only feeling now is a grating disappointment, that you get a footnote in his chapter of my life, that he could be mistakenly tarred with the self-same brush of association as you. Disappointment; coupled with the sometimes crippling apprehension that one day he may discover I’m unworthy of his affection. Until then, I think nothing of the ice in your eyes, the emptiness of your words; I’ll keep holding his hand and wandering those forests, my sights set on those mountains I yearn to climb with him.