mythology

A lot of things have changed and will change, I can only wish you the best as it happens.Malice

So by the time the morning came, Odysseus and I were indeed friends, as Odysseus had promised we would be. Or let me put it another way: I myself had developed friendly feelings towards him - more than that, loving and passionate ones - and he behaved as if he reciprocated them. Which is not quite the same thing.

One finds the same basic mythological themes in all the religions of the world, from the most primitive to the most sophisticated, from the North American plains to European forests to Polynesian atolls. The imagery of myth is a language, a lingua franca that expresses something basic about our deepest humanity. It is variously inflected in its various provinces.

She became his Ariadne, leading him through the labyrinth of books, stopping now and then to pass another one to him.

But like I told you guys years ago: this demigod gig is dangerous. Don't say I didn't warn you.

The reading eye must do the work to make them live, and so it did, again and again, never the same life twice, as the artist had intended.

Can you please tell me who you people are?""Criminals. Offenders. Monsters. We've all been imprisoned in Tartarus for discretions committed against the gods of Olympus."~ Hope/Daedalus, The River Styx

Mythology does not interest me. Nor does history. But the possible overlap between history and mythology excites me immensely.

Harpies, n. A disease transmitted to humans by birds with human faces.

Myths have a very long memory.

The library was a great sprawling complex with rolls and rolls of paper tucked into many shelves. Between the reading rooms were courtyards with living fountains and singing birds and butterflies that would transform into handsome young women to guide or entertain anyone who stayed there any length of time. I saw one among the stacks, explaining an older style of calligraphy to the newly appointed Heavenly Marine Official of the South China Sea. In another wing, a librarian stepped from her chrysalis for the first time, reciting T__ng Dynasty poetry to the flowers. That__ how I knew I was in the right section.

In the aether I appear in fiery forms, And in the aer I sit in a silvery chariot; earth reigns in my black brood of puppies.

Looking is the nature of wisdom.

Why, what could she have done, being what she is? Was there another Troy for her to burn?

Hades cracked his knuckles on each hand, and the noise was like gunpowder caps exploding in the silence. "First dish duty," he mumbled to himself, "now possessed cowboys. This just isn't my night.

He shook his head again. ____ afraid I don__ feel much of anything these days. Especially not hope. I have no time or energy to waste on false wishes and dreams that won__ come true.___ope isn__ about ignorant wishing._ She surprised even herself with herdefensive backlash. __ope is about believing__elieving there are betterthings in store for us if we just wait for them. It__ about understanding we__e not left completely on our own here, regardless of the way things appear.__amont snorted. __hat ain__ much for a body to go on.___erhaps not, but I reckon it__ enough. Sometimes it__ gotta be, anyhow.Without hope, what would drive one onward?__e was silent for a long moment before he looked up and met her eyes.His own eyes displayed no emotion when he answered in a weary, grimtone, __ear._ He took a drink and fell silent again as she quietly scrutinized him, attempting to discern in his haggard face the thoughts behind what he had said.

Think of this _ that the writer wrote alone, and the reader read alone, and they were alone with each other. True, the writer may have been alone also with Spenser's golden apples in the Faerie Queene, Proserpina's garden, glistening bright among the place's ashes and cinders, may have seen in his mind's eye, apple of his eye, the golden fruit of the Primavera, may have seen Paradise Lost, in the garden where Eve recalled Pomona and Proserpina. He was alone when he wrote and he was not alone then, all these voices sang, the same words, golden apples, different words in different places, an Irish castle, un unseen cottage, elastic-walled and grey round blind eyes.

...She nourishes the poison in her veins and is consumed by a secret fire.