I have done many impious things — no great ruler can do otherwise. I have put the good of the Empire before all human considerations. To keep the Emp… - Robert Graves

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I have done many impious things — no great ruler can do otherwise. I have put the good of the Empire before all human considerations. To keep the Empire free from factions I have had to commit many crimes.

English
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About Robert Graves

Robert Ranke Graves (24 July 1895 – 7 December 1985) was a prolific English poet, scholar and novelist. He is most famous for his autobiographical work Goodbye to All That, and works on classical themes and mythology, such as I, Claudius, The Greek Myths and The White Goddess. His father was Alfred Perceval Graves.

Biography information from Wikiquote

Also Known As

Birth Name: Robert von Ranke Graves
Native Name: Robert Ranke Graves
Alternative Names: Robert von Ranke-Graves Robert Von Ranke-Graves
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Additional quotes by Robert Graves

To jest dzika ziemia, kraj, który sam wybrałem,
W nim szorstka, skalna góra, wielkie wrzosowisko.
Rzadko na pustych polach tych głos jakiś słychać,
Chyba głos zimnej wody, co gdzieniegdzie płynie
Przez skały i wrzos wiotki rosnący w pustkowiu.
Mysz tędy przebiegnie ni ptak nie przeleci,
Bojąc się myszołowa, co po niebie płynie.

Szybuje tam i krąży, kołysząc skrzydłami,
Królestwo swe szerokie bystrym mierzy okiem,
Łowi drżenie niewielkich ukrytych żyjątek,
Rozdziera na kawałki i zrzuca je z nieba;
Tkliwości i litości serce nie dopuszcza,
Tam gdzie woda i skała tylko są pokarmem -
Życie niełatwe, strachu jest pełne i wstrząsów.

Czas nigdy nie wędrował do tego odludzia,
Wrzos i czarne bażyny kwitną po terminie,
Skały sterczą, strumyki spływają śpiewając,
O to, czy pora wczesna, czy późna, nie dbają;
Niebo płynie nad głową, błękitne lub szare;
Zimę poznałbyś po tym, że śniegiem zacina,
Gdyby nie to, że czerwiec jej zbroi się ima.

Jednak to moja ziemia, najbardziej ją kocham,
Pierwszy kraj, jaki powstał z Potopu, Chaosu;
Nie ma w nim żadnych dolin miłych dla popasu,
Nie ma podkutych koni, krwią nie był kupiony.
Kraj odwieczny - pagórki są w nim fortecami
Dla półbogów, gdy kroczą po ziemi, strach siejąc
Wśród tłumu tłustych mieszczan w odległych dolinach.

As I walked out one harvest night
About the stroke of One,
The Moon attained to her full height
Stood beaming like the Sun.
She exorcised the ghostly wheat
To mute assent in Love's defeat
Whose tryst had now begun.

The fields lay sick beneath my tread,
A tedious owlet cried;
The nightingale above my head
With this or that replied,
Like man and wife who nightly keep
Inconsequent debate in sleep
As they dream side by side.

Your phantom wore the moon's cold mask,
My phantom wore the same,
Forgetful of the feverish task
In hope of which they came,
Each image held the other's eyes
And watched a grey distraction rise
To cloud the eager flame.

To cloud the eager flame of love,
To fog the shining gate:
They held the tyrannous queen above
Sole mover of their fate,
They glared as marble statues glare
Across the tessellated stair
Or down the Halls of State.

And now cold earth was Arctic sea,
Each breath came dagger keen,
Two bergs of glinting ice were we,
The broad moon sailed between;
There swam the mermaids, tailed and finned,
And Love went by upon the wind
As though it had not been.

- Full Moon

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While altering the saga of Odysseus’s Return to make my Elyman suitors serve as Penelope’s lovers, I had to protect myself against scandal. What if someone recognized the story and supposed that I, Nausicaa the irreproachable, had played the promiscuous harlot in my father’s absence? So, according to my poem, Penelope must have remained faithful to Odysseus throughout those twenty years. And because this change meant that Aphrodite had failed to take her traditional revenge, I must make Poseidon, not her, the enemy who delayed him on his homeward voyage after the Fall of Troy. I should therefore have to omit the stories of Penelope’s banishment and the oar mistaken for a flail, and Odysseus’s death from Telemachus’s sting-ray spear. When I told Phemius of these decisions, he pointed out, rather nastily, that since Poseidon had fought for the Greeks against the Trojans, and since Odysseus had never failed to honour him, I must justify this enmity by some anecdote. “Very well,” I answered. “Odysseus blinded a Cyclops who, happening to be Poseidon’s son, prayed to him for vengeance.” “My dear Princess, every Cyclops in the smithies of Etna was born to Uranus, Poseidon’s grandfather, by Mother Earth.” “Mine was an exceptional Cyclops,” I snapped. “He claimed Poseidon as his father and kept sheep in a Sican cave, like Conturanus. I shall call him Polyphemus — that is, ‘famous’ — to make my hearers think him a more important character than he really was.” “Such deceptions tangle the web of poetry.” “But if I offer Penelope as a shining example for wives to follow when their husbands are absent on long journeys, that will excuse the deception.

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