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Thoughts on Sappho
2/9/03 12:09Small life update: sitting in room, drinking green tea (I woke up this morning feeling like someone had rubbed my throat with sandpaper and belted me a good one in the head to boot) and cursing out the Virtual Registrar's office with little vehemence. It won't recognize my password, even though I know I got into it this summer to check my course schedule. Have to request a new one now, and have no idea how long it will take them to process that.
Otakon pics and Parade night pics forthcoming this weekend sometime. Room unpacking proceeeds apace. Classes seem great so far, though senior sem doesn't start until next week.
That being said, here's the journal entry I meant to type up yesterday.
--
While I was waiting in a really long line in the bookstore, I picked up a book: If Not, Winter: Fragments of Sappho. It's beautiful. Translations of the little bits of Sappho we have left, with a facing page in ancient Greek. It was like half-haiku, or scraps of the notes that I jot to myself that never go anywhere. Stillborn poems. In the back, words, just single words, old and soft and still live, like leaves found pressed between the pages of a hundred-year old book.
I was reminded of my own--or any writer's--marginal scribblings by those this woman wrote thousands and thousands of years ago; reminded of myself by what she wrote on. Wonderful world.
Otakon pics and Parade night pics forthcoming this weekend sometime. Room unpacking proceeeds apace. Classes seem great so far, though senior sem doesn't start until next week.
That being said, here's the journal entry I meant to type up yesterday.
--
While I was waiting in a really long line in the bookstore, I picked up a book: If Not, Winter: Fragments of Sappho. It's beautiful. Translations of the little bits of Sappho we have left, with a facing page in ancient Greek. It was like half-haiku, or scraps of the notes that I jot to myself that never go anywhere. Stillborn poems. In the back, words, just single words, old and soft and still live, like leaves found pressed between the pages of a hundred-year old book.
I was reminded of my own--or any writer's--marginal scribblings by those this woman wrote thousands and thousands of years ago; reminded of myself by what she wrote on. Wonderful world.