By Margaret Reynolds
Publish 12 months note: First released in 2000 by way of Palgrave McMillan Trade
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Born round 630 BC at the Greek Island of Lesbos, Sappho is now considered as the best lyrical poet of Greece. Her paintings survives simply in fragments, but her effect extends all through Western literature, fuelled via the speculations and romances that have accumulated round her identify, her tale, her sexuality.
The Sappho Companion brings jointly many various sorts of paintings, starting from blue-stocking appreciations to juicy fantasies. We see her photograph switch, recreated in Ovid's poetry and Boccaccio's stories, in translations via Pope, Rossetti and Swinburne, Baudelaire, and H.D., within the glossy models of Eavan Boland, Carol Rumens, and Jeanette Winterson. Artists, too, have felt Sappho's energy, and The Sappho Companion incorporates a wealthy number of illustrations: classical statues and pre-Raphaelite work, Roman mosaics, and Romantic pornography.
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Extra info for The Sappho Companion
Sample text
Don’t tell me that he went up in smoke like Daddy’s cigar! He didn’t blow out like a match! It is special being here at Easter with the Cross they built like a capital T. The ceiling is an upside-down rowboat. I usually count its ribs. Maybe he was drowning? Or maybe we are all upside down? I can see the face of a mouse inside of all that stained-glass window. Well, it could be a mouse! Once I thought the Bunny Rabbit was special and I hunted for eggs. That’s when I was seven. Now it’s really Jesus.
Later, after the party, after the house went to bed, I sat up drinking the Christmas brandy, watching your picture, letting the tree move in and out of focus. The bulbs vibrated. They were a halo over your forehead. But you did not move. I continued to watch, forcing myself, waiting, inexhaustible, thirty-five. I wanted your eyes, like the shadows of two small birds, to change. But they did not age. The smile that gathered me in, all wit, all charm, was invincible. Hour after hour I looked at your face but I could not pull the roots out of it.
Maybe he was only hiding? Maybe he could fly? Yesterday I found a purple crocus blowing its way out of the snow. It was all alone. It was getting its work done. Maybe Jesus was only getting his work done and letting God blow him off the Cross and maybe he was afraid for a minute so he hid under the big stones. He was smart to go to sleep up there even though his mother got so sad and let them put him in a cave. I sat in a tunnel when I was five. That tunnel, my mother said, went straight into the big river and so I never went again.