The Great Greek poet held his diary every day, from 1925 to his death, in 1971. A first translated volume appears, admirable.
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In 1925, well before becoming the great writer of modern Greece and to receive the Nobel Prize for Literature (1963), Georges Séferis (1900-1971) had been immersed in writing a newspaper, including The first part seems today to the sound of time under the title days. 1925-1944. There is the stages of a life where it was successively student in Paris, official in Athens, Vice-Consul in London and then in Albania, again in Athens and then in exile in Cairo and South Africa, back in Egypt then in Athens from 1944. It is a mix of readings, fragments of works being written, correspondence extracts and especially things collected in the outside world. The rule is of course to grasp each scene in its singularity, and sefer is one of the great masters of this art where it becomes the equal of a Jules Fox or an Ernst Jünger.
The Orthodox Church at the range of claw
In the art of the “thing view” is added that of the metaphors: the days follow one another, sometimes “carandole disjointed”, sometimes “additional screw tower”; Time for all being to feel “empty like a returned tobacco joke”. When the author comes out doing his shopping, it is also to indulge in a poetic cruel spirit, in the manner of the cartoonist Albert Dubout: “behind the marble counter, a fat woman whose corset had hoisted his chest. So high that his head seemed asked on a plateau. “And if he arrives at our gaze to relax in front of certain paragraphs, you have to be wary of motion purposes:” A girl from the people, pompous, in the handsome face. The Ford bus. Aspiration to happiness, a break, as after a concert. The life of the people, simply, in his cage. “The Orthodox Church, of course, goes within range:” At the door, a pope coated with his stole gave his blessing, as we would sell cinema tickets. “The same is true of a certain journalism, defined by a director of periodical:” Journalism, it consists of exacerbating the human passions. I strike. on the good, I flatter the bad guys, and I sell paper. “In the end, it’s the GR whole that is taken in criticism: “nothing pure or free can see the day in this country; Our sun gives birth to flies. “
Even the travels do not succeed in provoking at home of true enthusiasms, especially since, when he chooses London, it’s at the wrong season: “Here two weeks it rains without interruption. If environmental theories were founded, the English should now be frogs. “The show of the world can sometimes awaken a hope:” In the park, English turf loss, horizon low and narrow. Colors for watercolor. We say that, behind Watercolor, there is a reserve of happiness. “And we can see” a dog, followed by a woman, herself followed by his perfume “.
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