Konstantinos P. Cavafy Quotes

And now, what will become of us without the barbarians? Those people were a kind of solution.

The love they felt wasn’t, of course, what it once had been; the attraction between them had gradually diminished, the attraction had diminished a great deal. But to be separated, that wasn’t what they themselves wanted.

As one long prepared, and graced with courage,
as is right for you who were given this kind of city,
go firmly to the window
and listen with deep emotion, but not
with the whining, the pleas of a coward;
listen — your final delectation — to the voices,
to the exquisite music of that strange procession,
and say goodbye to her, to the Alexandria you are losing.

The Footsteps On an ebony bedstead
adorned with eagles made of coral,
Nero lies deep in sleep – quiet, unconscious, happy:
in the prime of his body’s vigour;
in the beautiful ardour of his youth. But in the alabaster hall
that holds the ancient shrine of the Ahenobarbi,
the Lares of his house are anxious.
These minor household gods are trembling,
trying to conceal their already negligible bodies.
For they heard a terrible noise,
a deadly sound spiralling up the staircase,
iron-soled footsteps shaking the steps.
The miserable Lares, near-fainting now,
huddle in the corner of the shrine,
jostling and stumbling over each other,
one little god falling over the next,
for they knew what sort of noise it was;
they recognize, by now, the footsteps of the Furies.

At least let me now deceive myself with illusions
so as not to feel my empty life.

And yet I came so close so many times.
And yet how paralyzed I was, how cowardly;
why did I keep my lips sealed
while my empty life wept inside me,
my desires wore robes of mourning?

To have been so close so many times
to those sensual eyes, those lips,
to that body I dreamed of, loved.
To have been so close so many times.

September 1903

From my most unnoticed actions, my most veiled writing — from these alone will I be understood.

I will not fear my passions, like a coward;
I will give my body entirely to pleasure,
to dreamed-of joys, the most brazen
erotic desires, the most depraved passions in my blood,
all without fear.

Old Men’s Souls Within their ancient, decrepit bodies
the souls of old men wallow.
Poor things, so full of sorrow:
how bored with the wretched life they bear,
yet how they cherish it and how they fear
its loss, these contrary and befuddled
souls, tragicomically huddled
inside their ancient, desiccated hides.

You’ve been wholly transformed into feeling, for me.

Wymarzone, ukochane głosy
tych, co umarli, albo tych, co dla nas
tak są straceni, jak umarli.

Czasem do nas przemawiają w snach
czasem je w zadumaniu słyszy umysł.

A z ich brzmieniem powraca na chwilę
dźwięki najpierwszej naszego życia poezji,
jak muzyka, która nocą, gdzieś w dali, dogasa.

do not hurry the journey at all:
better that it lasts for many years
and you arrive an old man on the island,
rich from all that you have gained on the way,
not counting on Ithaca for riches. For Ithaca gave you the splendid voyage:
without her you would never have embarked.
She has nothing more to give you now. And though you find her poor, she has not misled you;
you having grown so wise, so experienced from your travels,
by then you will have learned what Ithacas mean.

Painted Things I love my work and take pains with it. But today
I find the slow pace of composition discouraging.
The weather has got into me. It just gets darker
and darker. Non-stop wind and rain.
I’d rather watch than write.
I’m looking at this painting now:
it shows a handsome boy lying near a spring,
out of breath from running.
Such a beautiful boy! And such a divine noon
which has taken him and induced him to sleep!
I sit and gaze like this for a long time.
Immersed again in art, I recover from the labour of creating it.

Below the House Yesterday while strolling through a neighborhood on the edge of town, I passed below the house I used to go in when I was very young. There Eros had taken possession of my body with his exquisite force. And yesterday as I passed along that ancient street, suddenly everything was made beautiful by desire’s spell: the shops, the pavements, the stones, and walls, and balconies, and windows; there was nothing ugly that remained there.

Katharevousa savored, then, of official culture, the classical past, and high art. (To Forster, it “has tried to revive the classical tradition, and only succeeds in being dull.”)

Of course many people will have much to say. We should listen. But we won't be deceived by words such as Indispensable, Unique, and Great. Someone else indispensable and unique and great can always be found at a moment's notice.