Reading Greek in English

It's the Greeks who put us in this position of thinking there's an ideal, when there really is none, there's no ideal at all, there never was.

If the ideal exists it's in the hours that are so lovely, the way the light looks at first and at last.

Mornings, the runway looks clear enough for another day to land on Planet Earth and by nightfall we've come as close to meaninglessness as possible, draining it to the last drop.

The prison, if it is a prison and it is some of the time, has to end somewhere, it can't exist outside itself or go on eternally. Barb wire has to be built on top of something, it doesn't stretch forever, there are always little gaps you can climb through to gain your freedom if you know where to look. And being human, once your freedom is gained, you can't wait to be in prison again, and climb back through the little gaps in the barb-wire stretched atop the chain-link to regain your imprisonment.

Nobody I know reads Greek these days. I do, I read the Greeks now and then. Reading the Greeks never fails to reveal to me that part of the world I'll never really know, myself.