Ἔρως Ἥρως
Αλέξανδρος Παπαδιαμάντης (1851–1911), 1887
A penniless fisherman sleeps in his boat beneath a lit-up wedding house, and schemes all night at a rescue that may never happen. Papadiamantis's only novel: salt, roses, and one long refusal to act. A salt-and-rose night of longing, lyrical and tender, with a quiet power that comes from wanting and waiting rather than doing.
Feels like longing and tenderness. About love and power.
Who it’s for
You may like it if you enjoy lyrical, sea-scented prose and a story that lingers on desire and hesitation more than on events. The Greek is nineteenth-century and often archaic, so it asks for patience with the language.
Why read it
A compact way to meet Papadiamantis's lyrical voice: one fisherman's night of love and hesitation, set against Easter dawn and roses.
Pages from the book
Why the most beautiful morning is the one that hurts most.
Καὶ οὕτω συνέβη. Ἦτο ἤδη τετάρτη μετὰ τὰ μεσάνυχτα. Γλυκοχαράματα, ἀπόπασχα, Ἀπρίλιος ὁ μήν. Τὰ πουλιὰ ἐκελαδοῦσαν εἰς τὰ δένδρα, γύρω εἰς τὴν ἀκρογιαλιάν. Ἡ αὐγὴ ἔδειχνε τὰ ρόδινα δάκτυλά της ψηλὰ ἀπὸ τὴν κορυφὴν τοῦ βουνοῦ ἀντικρύ, καὶ ὅλος ὁ ἀὴρ ἐμοσχοβολοῦσεν ἀπὸ τὰ ρόδα τῶν κήπων ὁλόγυρα, τὰ ρόδα τὰ ὁποῖα εἶχον πλασθῆ ἀπὸ τὸν Δημιουργὸν χωρὶς ἀκάνθας· καὶ τώρα, διὰ νὰ δρέψῃ τις ἓν ἀπὸ αὐτὰ ἀνάγκη νὰ ματώσῃ τὰ δάκτυλα… καὶ πάλιν, ὅταν τὸ ρόδον εἶναι ὑψηλὰ πολύ, δὲν τὸ φθάνει ὅσον καὶ ἂν τανυσθῇ τις, μόνον ἀδίκως ματώνει τὰ δάκτυλα… καὶ καμμίαν φορὰν πέφτει καὶ σπάζει τὰ πόδια. The rescue that never happens, lived through to the last detail.
Ἔφευγεν, ἔφευγεν ὡς δελφίνι, ἐφύσα κ᾽ ἐξέρνα τὸ νερὸν ὡς φάλαινα, καὶ προέβαλλε κοπτερὸν τὸν βραχίονα ὡς ξιφίας. Ἔπλεε μὲ τὸν δεξιὸν βραχίονα, κ᾽ ἐσφιχταγκάλιαζε τὴν νέαν μὲ τὸν ἀριστερόν. Ἄνω τὴν κεφαλήν της, ἄνω. Ν᾽ ἀναπνέῃ τὸ δακτυλιδένιο στοματάκι της… «Μὴ φοβᾶσαι, ἀγάπη μου!» Καὶ μικρὸν κατὰ μικρὸν θὰ ἐξετοπίζετο ὀργυιὰς καὶ ὀργυιάς… Θὰ ἐζύγωνε, θὰ ἐπλησίαζεν εἰς τὴν ξηράν. «Τώρα, τώρα, ἐφτάσαμε, ψυχή μου». Κανὲν δυστύχημα δὲν ἔμελλε νὰ συμβῇ. Ὅλος ὁ κόσμος θὰ ἐσώζετο. «Ἐζαλίσθης, ψυχή μου; Ὅλα καλὰ τώρα. Ἐπνίγη κανείς; Ὄχι, ἀφοῦ ἐγλύτωσες σύ». Ὤ, πῶς θὰ ἔπεφταν ἀφανισμένοι, μισοπνιγμένοι, στάζοντες θάλασσαν, ἐπάνω εἰς τὴν ἄμμον. Ἀναπλασμένοι καὶ ἀναβαπτισμένοι. Νέος Ἀδὰμ καὶ νέα Εὔα, φέροντες τοὺς χιτῶνας θαλασσοβρεγμένους κολλητὰ εἰς τὴν ἐπιδερμίδα των, περισσότερον παρὰ γυμνοί. Two mothers, and only one of them can still rock you.
Ὁ Γιωργὴς ὅμως ἤθελε νὰ ὑπάγῃ στὴν βάρκαν, ὄχι διότι τοῦ εἶχε παραγγείλει οὕτω ὁ κυβερνήτης του, ἀλλὰ διότι πάντοτε ἠρέσκετο κ᾽ ἐπροτίμα νὰ κοιμᾶται εἰς τὴν βάρκαν. Ἡ μάννα του ἦτο πλέον γραῖα καὶ δὲν ἠδύνατο νὰ τὸν νανουρίσῃ εἰς τὴν κούνιαν του οὔτε εἰς τὴν ἀγκαλιάν της. Ἡ ἄλλη μάννα του, ἡ θάλασσα, ἀκόμη τὸν ἐλίκνιζε μὲ τὰ κύματά της. Κ᾽ ἐκείνη εἶχε κούνιαν, κ᾽ ἐκείνη εἶχεν ἀγκάλην καὶ ἀγκάλας πολλάς. Διὰ τὴν πρώτην μητέρα ἦτο πλέον μεγάλος καὶ ἡλικιωμένος υἱός. Διὰ τὴν δευτέραν μεγάλην μητέρα, τὴν προσφιλῆ καὶ ὑγρὰν καὶ ἄπιστον, ἦτο ἀκόμη μικρόν, πολὺ μικρὸν τέκνον της. Αλέξανδρος Παπαδιαμάντης.Papadiamantis wrote this novel in 1887 and called it «Ἔρως Ἥρως» — eros and heros, love and hero — a title that plays on the two syllables of the ancient word.
Books that feel like this
More by Αλέξανδρος Παπαδιαμάντης
Λαμπριάτικος Ψάλτης
Αλέξανδρος Παπαδιαμάντης, 1912
A priest waits for a helper on Easter night in a crumbling chapel above the sea, while a stranded elder takes the wrong path in the moonlight.
Θέρος-Ἔρος
Αλέξανδρος Παπαδιαμάντης, 1911
Spring and hunger, maidens and wolves, on a Greek island where the fields blaze with poppies and a gypsy girl reads a letter three times.
Στο Χριστό στο Κάστρο
Αλέξανδρος Παπαδιαμάντης, 1892
A priest vows to hold Christmas liturgy in a ruined cliff-top church. To keep it, he must cross a winter sea with his parish.
Where to get it
Some of these links earn us a small commission, at no cost to you. It keeps BookFeed free.
Questions readers ask
- Is Ἔρως Ἥρως for me?
- You may like it if you enjoy lyrical, sea-scented prose and a story that lingers on desire and hesitation more than on events. The Greek is nineteenth-century and often archaic, so it asks for patience with the language.
- What is Ἔρως Ἥρως like?
- A salt-and-rose night of longing, lyrical and tender, with a quiet power that comes from wanting and waiting rather than doing. Feels like longing and tenderness. About love and power.
- What should I read after Ἔρως Ἥρως?
- If you liked Ἔρως Ἥρως, try The gardener (Rabindranath Tagore), The Lily of the Valley (Honoré de Balzac) and Sonnets from the Portuguese (Elizabeth Barrett Browning).
A taste of the feed
What it costs to hand someone the ashes of your grief.
I lift my heavy heart up solemnly, As once Electra her sepulchral urn, And, looking in thine eyes, I overturn The ashes at thy feet. Behold and see What a great heap of grief lay hid in me, And how the red wild sparkles dimly burn Through the ashen greyness. If thy foot in scorn Could tread them out to darkness utterly, It might be well perhaps. But if instead Thou wait beside me for the wind to blow The grey dust up—those laurels on thine head, O my Beloved, will not shield thee so, That none of all the fires shall scorch and shred The hair beneath. Stand further off then! Go.
Sonnets from the Portuguese · Elizabeth Barrett Browning
A wind that carries every love story ever told.
Always it brought softly to him strange, sweet tidings of far-off things. It blew from a place that was old and whispered of youth. It blew down the grooves of time. It brought a story of the passing hours. It breathed low of fighting men and praying women. It sang clearly the song of love. That ever was the burden of its tidings—youth in the shady woods, waders through the wet meadows, boy and girl at the hedgerow stile, bathers in the booming surf, sweet, idle hours on grassy, windy hills, long strolls down moonlit lanes—everywhere in far-off lands, fingers locked and bursting hearts and longing lips—from all the world tidings of unquenchable love.
Riders of the Purple Sage · Zane Grey
The moment a parent's love turns into fear of the world.
Wind whines and whines the shingle, The crazy pierstakes groan; A senile sea numbers each single Slimesilvered stone. From whining wind and colder Grey sea I wrap him warm And touch his trembling fineboned shoulder And boyish arm. Around us fear, descending Darkness of fear above And in my heart how deep unending Ache of love!
Poetry · James Joyce
Read pages from books like this, one at a time
Keep reading in the feed