Books like Η Μηλιά

Ἀλλὰ πρὸ ἡμισείας ὥρας, ἐάν τις διήρχετο εἰς ἀπόστασιν διακοσίων βημάτων ἔξωθεν τοῦ σχολείου, θὰ ἐνόμιζεν ὅτι ἦτο θηριοτροφεῖον εἰδικὸν διὰ θῶας τῆς ἐρήμου καὶ δι’ ἄλλα ἀνήσυχα ἀγρίμια. Τὰ παιδία ἐχόρευαν, ἐπήδων, ἐσκίρτων, ἐφώναζαν, διεπληκτίζοντο, ἐγέλων, ἔκλαιον. Ἦτο θέρος καὶ καύσων πνιγηρός. Παμμιγὴς βοὴ ἀνήρχετο διὰ τῶν ὀκτὼ ἀνοικτῶν μεγάλων παραθύρων, ἐχόντων ὅλα σχεδὸν τὰ ὑαλία σπασμένα καὶ τὰ πλεῖστα παραθυρόφυλλα φαγωμένα, τοὺς στροφεῖς ἐσκωριασμένους. Τὰ θρανία χωλά, κινούμενα, χορεύοντα, ἐφαίνοντο ὡς σχεδίαι πλέουσαι ἐντὸς τοῦ κύματος τῶν παιδικῶν κεφαλῶν. Ἡ διδασκαλικὴ ἕδρα ὑψηλή, μὲ τὰ φατνώματα σαπρά, κεχηνότα, ὡμοίαζε μὲ βάρκαν ξουριασμένην μακρὰν τοῦ λιμένος ὑπὸ τοῦ ἀνέμου.

“It doesn’t happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse. “You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”

"What matters is not that Anna died in childbirth, but that all these Annas, Mavras, Pelageas, toil from early morning till dark, fall ill from working beyond their strength, all their lives tremble for their sick and hungry children, all their lives are being doctored, and in dread of death and disease, fade and grow old early, and die in filth and stench. Their children begin the same story over again as soon as they grow up, and so it goes on for hundreds of years and milliards of men live worse than beasts— in continual terror, for a mere crust of bread. The whole horror of their position lies in their never having time to think of their souls, of their image and semblance.

Τόσα χρόνια πανδρεμμένος, ἐγὼ ἔκαμνα ταὶς ἑτοιμασίαις κ’ ἐκείνη πήγαινε στὸ ταξείδι! Ἔτσι στὸ Ραιδεστό· ἔτσι στὴν Συληβριά· ἔτσι στὴν Μήδεια· ἔτσι παντοῦ. Ἕνα ταξείδι, ψυχή μου, αὐτὸ τὸ μελετοῦσα στὰ κρυφά, τo φύλαγα γιὰ λόγου μου. Καιροὺς καὶ χρόνους ἑμάζευα τὰ «μαδιὰ» καὶ τὰ ἔκρυβα ὅπου κι’ ὅπως εἰμποροῦσα. Σὰν ἑμάζωξα πενήντα χιλιάδες γρόσια, τὸ βάλλω μία μέρα στὸ «κέφι», καὶ φωνάζω τὴν γιαγιά σου — Ὅταν τὸ εἶχα στὸ κέφι δὲν τὴν ἐγιώρταζα πολὺ πολύ·— Τῆς λέγω λοιπόν, ψυχή μου, ἔτσι δὰ μ’ ἀπόφασι: -Χρουσῆ! Ἐβάλθηκα νὰ πάγω σὲ ταξείδι, κύτταξε μὴν εἶναι κανένα πράμμα ἑτοιμόγεννο, ἢ ἄρρωστο, ἢ χρειαζούμενο, καὶ κύτταξε μὴν ἔμβῃ κανένας «μουσαφίρης» στὸ σπίτι γιατί, διές, τοῦ σπάζω τὰ πόδια του! Καὶ ὁ παπποὺς ἔκαμεν ὡς ἐὰν ἐθαύμαζε τὸν ἑαυτόν του πῶς τὰ ἐκατάφερεν. Σὲ ἤθελα, εἶπεν εἶτα πρὸς ἐμέ, νὰ τὴν διης πῶς τὰ ἐχρειάσθηκε! Τσιμουδιὰ δὲν ἔβγαλε! Κ’ ἐγὼ αὐτὸ ἤθελα.

“When I was alive and had a human heart,” answered the statue, “I did not know what tears were, for I lived in the Palace of Sans-Souci, where sorrow is not allowed to enter. In the daytime I played with my companions in the garden, and in the evening I led the dance in the Great Hall. Round the garden ran a very lofty wall, but I never cared to ask what lay beyond it, everything about me was so beautiful. My courtiers called me the Happy Prince, and happy indeed I was, if pleasure be happiness. So I lived, and so I died. And now that I am dead they have set me up here so high that I can see all the ugliness and all the misery of my city, and though my heart is made of lead yet I cannot chose but weep.”

Λεν ο κόσμος, η αγάπηέχει βάσανα πολλά·εγώ λέγω πως σε τούτοδε στοχάζονται καλά.Νύχτα ημέρα να παθαίνω,μια στιγμή τ’ αλησμονώ,μότι να καλαντικρύσωτα ματάκια που πονώ.Πάρτε, όσα κι αν θελήστε,δάκρυα, πάθια, στεναγμούς,ούτε έναν μην αφήστεοχ τους δάρτες και καϋμούς.