Βιβλία σαν το «Η κακή αδερφή»

Μ’ εκάλεσεν ονομαστί, και είπε: ― Πώς ήλθες εδώ, τέκνον; ― Έχασα το δρόμο, απήντησα εγώ. Ο γέρων έσεισε την κεφαλήν. ― Έτσι χάνουν τον δρόμον τους, είπεν, όσοι δεν ηξεύρουν πόθεν έρχονται και πού πηγαίνουν. Μήπως σ’ έστειλαν πουθενά εις υπηρεσίαν και λέγεις έχασα τον δρόμον; Διατί δεν έκαμες υπακοήν; Δεν σου είπεν ο πατήρ σου ότι έπρεπε να μείνης εκεί μέχρι τέλους της λειτουργίας; Διατί έφυγες; Δεν ήξευρα τι να του πω. Δεν μου ήρχετο μάλιστα να τον ερωτήσω πώς το ηξεύρει. ― Και δεν σου έφθανεν ο κίνδυνος που έτρεξες να σε σκοτώση η φοράδα, σήμερον το πρωί; Δεν έπρεπεν να σωφρονισθής; ― Α! ήσουν αντίκρυ και μ’ έβλεπες; είπα εγώ, μη γνωρίζων τι άλλο να είπω. ― Ημείς τα βλέπομεν, είπε παραδόξως εκείνος. Εγώ είμαι ο Χαιρήμων μοναχός, διά τον οποίον σού διηγείτο προχθές ο πατήρ σου. Δεν εσκεπτόμην τίποτε.

She walked the whole night long, and next day also without stopping, until she could go no farther for weariness. Then she saw a forest-hut, and went into it, and found a room with six little beds. She did not venture to get into any of them, but crept under one, and lay down on the hard ground, to pass the night there. Just before sunset she heard a rustling, and saw six Swans come flying in at the window. They alighted on the ground and blew at each other, and blew all the feathers off, and their swan’s skins stripped off like a shirt.

There is an ecstasy that marks the summit of life, and beyond which life cannot rise. And such is the paradox of living, this ecstasy comes when one is most alive, and it comes as a complete forgetfulness that one is alive. This ecstasy, this forgetfulness of living, comes to the artist, caught up and out of himself in a sheet of flame; it comes to the soldier, war-mad on a stricken field and refusing quarter; and it came to Buck, leading the pack, sounding the old wolf-cry, straining after the food that was alive and that fled swiftly before him through the moonlight. He was sounding the deeps of his nature, and of the parts of his nature that were deeper than he, going back into the womb of Time.

My lot be still to leadThe life of innocence and flyIrreverence in word or deed,To follow still those laws ordained on highWhose birthplace is the bright ethereal sky.No mortal birth they own,Olympus their progenitor alone:Ne’er shall they slumber in oblivion cold,The god in them is strong and grows not old.

Ἀπ’ ἐναντίας ἤτο πολὺ προσηνὴς πρὸς ἠμὰς καὶ μας ἠγάπα ὄλους μετὰ περιπαθείας. Και -πράγμα περίεργον- ἡ πρὸς ἡμὰς τρυφερότης τοῦ κορασίου, ἀντὶ νὰ ἐλαττούται προϊούσης τῆς ἀσθενείας του, ἀπεναντίας ηὔξανεν. Ἐνθυμοῦμαι τοὺς μαύρους καὶ μεγάλους αὐτῆς ὀφθαλμοὺς, καὶ τὰ καμαρωτὰ καὶ σμιγμένα της ὀφρύδια, τὰ ὁποῖα ἐφαίνοντο τόσῳ μᾶλλον μελανότερα, ὅσῳ ὠχρότερον ἐγίνετο τὸ πρόσωπον της. Πρόσωπον ἐκ φύσεως ρεμβῶδες καὶ μελαγχολικόν, ἐπὶ τοῦ ὁποίου τότε μόνον ἐπεχύνετο γλυκειά τις ἰλαρότης, ὅταν μᾶς ἔβλεπεν ὅλους συνηγμένους πλησίον της. Συνήθως ἐφύλαττεν ὑπὸ τὸ προσκεφάλαιόν της τοὺς καρπούς, οὕς αἱ γειτόνισσαι τῇ ἔφερον ὡς ἀρρωστικόν, καὶ τοὺς ἐμοίραζεν εἰς ἡμᾶς, ἐπανελθόντας ἐκ τοῦ σχολείου. Ἀλλὰ τὸ ἔκαμνε πάντοτε κρυφὰ. Διότι ἡ μήτηρ μας ἐθύμωνε, καὶ δὲν ἔστεργε νὰ καταβροχθίζωμεν ἡμεῖς ὅ,τι ἐπεθύμει νὰ εἴχε γευθῇ κἂν ἡ ἀσθενής της κόρη.

Long before anybody else was astir he arose and stole softly downstairs. The sunlight was stealing in at every crevice, and flashing in long streaks across the darkened rooms. The dining-room into which he looked struck chill and cheerless in the dark yellow light which came through the lowered blinds. He remembered that it had the same appearance when his father lay dead in the house; now, as then, everything seemed ghastly and unreal; the very chairs standing as their occupants had left them the night before seemed to be indulging in some dark communication of ideas.