Sa deschidem, dara, copertele larg si sa incepem sa dezlipim din post-it-uri..
Waltz me to...
Joking but not joking, Desdemona and Lefty embraced. At first they just hugged in the standard way, but after ten seconds the hug began to change; certain positions of the hands and strokings of the fingers weren't the usual display of sibling affection , and these things constituted a language of their own, announced a whole new message in the silent room. Lefty began waltzing Desdemona around, European-style; he waltzed her outside, across the yard, over to the cocoonery, and back under the grape arbor, and she laughed and covered her mouth with her hand. 'You're a good dancer, cousin," she said, and her heart jumped again, making her think she might die right then and there in Lefty's arms, but of course she didn't; they danced on. And let's not forget where they were dancing, in Bythinios, that mountain village where cousins sometimes married third cousins and everyone was somehow related; so that as they danced, they started holding each other more tightly, stopped joking, and then just danced together, as a man and a woman, in lonely and pressing circumstances, might sometimes do.
(...) great discoveries, whether of silk or of gravity, are always windfalls. They happen to people loafing under trees. :P
Married in circles
Bride and bridegroom performed the dance of Isaiah. Hip to hip, arms interwoven to hold hands, Desdemona and Lefty circumambulated the captain, once, twice and then again, spinning the cocoon of their life together. No patriarchal linearity here. We Greeks get married in circles, to impress upon ourselves the essential matrimonial facts: that to be happy you have to find variety in repetition; that to go forward you have to come back where you began.
The only escape was radio. She wore her headphones in bed, on the couch, in the bathtub. During the summer she carried her Aeriola Jr. outside and sat under the cherry tree. Filling her head with music, she escaped her body.
Sourmelina's anguish at her husband's death far exceeded her affection for him in life.
Across the street young men were calling out to her: "Baby, you got so many curves you make a car crash!"
"The Church doesn't want people not to think," Michael replied without taking offense. "The Church believes that thinking will take a person only so far. Where thinking ends, revelation begins."
"Chrysostomos!" Desdemona exclaimed. "Father Mike, you have a mouth of gold."
But Milton persisted, "I'd say where thinking ends, stupidity begins."
"That's how people live, Milt" - Michael Antoniou again, still kindly, gently - "by telling stories. What's the first thing a kid says when he learns how to talk? 'Tell me a story.' That's how we understand who we are, where we come from. Stories are everything. And what story does the Church have to tell? That's easy. It's the greatest story ever told."
A thing of beauty
As a baby, even as a little girl, I possessed an awkward, extravagant beauty. No single feature was right in itself and yet, when they were taken all together, something captivating emerged. An inadvertent harmony. A changeableness, too, as if beneath my visible face there was another, having second thoughts.
He was a great teacher, Mr. da Silva. He treated us with complete seriousness, as if we eighth graders, during fifth period, might settle something scholars have been arguing about for centuries. He listened to our chirping, his hairline pressing down on his eyes. When he spoke himself, it was in complete paragraphs. If you listened closely it was possible to hear the dashes and commas in his speech, even the colons and semicolons. Mr. da Silva had a relevant quotation for everything that had happened to him and in this way evaded real life. Instead of eating lunch, he told you what Oblonsky and Levin had for lunch in Anna Karenina. Or, describing a sunset from Daniel Deronda, he failed to notice the one that was presently falling over Michigan.