MEMORY FROM ATHENS
Terraces with cracked Maltese tiles soaking up the rain, low-ceilinged laundries, basins with old hats and stacks of magazines, brass faucets, melted laundry soap, wooden stairs washed with potash and external iron stairs like upright shells laid bare. And as Thekla, Theodora, and Theoni raced up them, at each step they revealed a part of their flesh. Thekla, Theodora, Theoni with the moving theta of their sweaty armpits, the inverted delta under their skirts, and the wavy omegas crowned with the bow of their apron.
VIOLENCE
I try to name things as they are, and I constantly encounter new difficulties. For example, to say violence, violence, not peacekeeping intervention, the violence of the rich and powerful, nor inevitable extremes, the violence of the poor and oppressed. I am troubled by the mutations of what we call the necessity of History, the reversals in political movements, the countless analyses of commentators. But mostly I am entangled by my own interpretations and guilt. I would now like to say openly that I have come to detest every, any, violence, no matter whose it is.
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