On Thursday, March 31 at 8.00 in the evening Maria Demetriades opens the exhibition “Togetherness”, The joy of coexistence with the latest work of Maria Grigoriadi at the Medusa Art Gallery. The title is a question, about a joy underminedaaa
T.S.ELIOT
FOUR QUARTETS ( Harcourt, Brace and Company, New York 1943)
“East Coker v,” No.2 from “The Four Quartets”
So here I am, in the middle way, having had twenty years – Twenty
years largely wasted, the years of l’entre deux guerres -
Trying to learn to use words, and every attempt
Is a wholly new start, and a different kind of failure
Because one has only learnt to get the better of words
For the thing one no longer has to say, or the way in which
One is no longer disposed to say it. And so each venture
Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate
With shabby equipment always deteriorating
In the general mess of imprecision of feeling,
Undisciplined squads of emotion. And what there is to conquer
By strength and submission, has already been discovered
Once or twice, or several times, by men whom one cannot hope
To emulate –But there is no competition- There is only the fight to
recover what has been lost
And found and lost again and again: and now, under conditions
That seem unpropitious. But perhaps neither gain nor loss.
For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.
“Little Gidding v” No.4 from “The Four Quartets”
We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
JORGE LUIS BORGES
A DREAM(From the Poetic Collection: The number 1981, Alianza)
In a deserted place in Iran there is a not very tall stone tower that has neither door nor
window. In the only room (with a dirt floor and shaped like a circle) there is a wooden
table and a bench. In that circular cell, a man who looks like me is writing in letters I
cannot understand a long poem about a man who in another circular cell is writing a poem about a man who in another circular cell… The process never ends and no one
will be able to read what the prisoners write.
(Translated, from the Spanish, by Suzanne Jill Levine)
Poetry, “A Dream,” The New Yorker,July6,2009,p.82