It’s true that painting, which pursues me and which I continually resist, still activates me.
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It’s true that painting, which pursues me and which I continually resist, still activates me.
“He seems to me equal to gods that man / who opposite you / sits and listens close / to your sweet speaking
and lovely laughing — oh it / puts the heart in my chest on wings / for when I look at you, a moment, then no speaking / is left in me
no: tongue breaks, and thin / fire is racing under skin / and in eyes no sight and drumming / fills ears
and cold sweat holds me and shaking / grips me all, greener than grass / I am and dead — or almost / I seem to me.”
Sappho | Fragment 31