2008

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Yannis Ritsos - Autobiography

Documents on his life and work
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BY RITSOS
On a day in May you left me, I lost you on that Mayday,
in the springtime, my son, you loved so well and used to go
Up to the sun-blessed terrace and gaze and your eyes never
had their fill of milking the light of the entire universe
Excerpt from Part 1, of EPITAPHIOS May 1936

MONEMVASIA:

HOMECOMING

"For twenty-five whole years I hadn't visited Monemvasia, When I went

back the first time, I was aware of all my dead kinsfolk following behind
me. This made me feel rather bitter and my place of birth seemed quite
inhospitable. Nevertheless, little by little I no longer considered them dead
and this reconciled me with them. I became reconciled not with death
itself, but with the dead. I felt the need to give them a place in poetry.
And from the time I succeeded (insofar as I did succeed) in giving them
a place in poetry, I felt they were absolutely alive, resurrected.
So here I am, back again in my father's house. This house remains
deserted now, the chairs are broken like the armchairs in the "Moonlight
Sonata". And yet, it's as if a new life is starting to circulate in these invisible
veins of the other house. And the dead who are gone: my rather, my
father, my older brother, my older sister, all of them - seem to be here all
around me. All of them present, all my own kin and I wonder if this can
be true is it a real story? Through Art, it is possible for human beings,
houses, landscapes, seas, songs, centuries, to come back to life. Yes, a
mystical certainty validates this. I don't know how, but perhaps this is the
very function of Nature, together with the Spirit's function; and above all,
the synthesis of the senses and of knowledge, which creates a new reality
for us, a reality endowed with durability, immortality, eternity. Sometimes I
wonder, is this reality, or perhaps is it the true reality we have lived not
only in life, but also in dreams, in our imagination, and in the act of Art.
And precisely by the act of this Art, this reality has become a genuine,
prime, unique reality. Well now, my beloved old home, you are resurrected,
brought back to life in poetry. All those who are absent are for all time
present, as well as this entire landscape, which has so often been attacked,
besieged, ravaged, shattered. Once again, it is standing, absolutely alive,
absolutely strong, through my Art, like a landmark of this universal reality.
Once again, I can hear the distant song of the sea. This has never ceased
eternal motion, eternal Art, eternal music. All these things are immuteable,
for ever immoveable within the law of eternal movement."

BIRTH

IN THE " C E L L S "

"I was born in a house called the "Cells". This house has a great
history, but this is not the moment for me to tell the story. Down below,
the sacristans of the Church of the Chrysaphitissa Virgin used to live. The
candle-makers also lived there. With big ladles, they stirred the wax in
cauldrons. Then they would cast the wax on strings dangling on branches
of the trees. They would go on and on casting the wax and sometimes
they "embroidered" or decorated the candles. The whole vicinity was
fragrant with brine, dry herbs and beeswax. I can still smell this scent of
wax in my nostrils. I didn't live here a long time; perhaps I was one or
two years old when we moved to the other house. Nevertheless,
imperceptibly, there still remains a memory of the sound of the sea. The
waves pounded away here; then the one wave would disappear, echoing
the beat, as the next wave rolled in. And there was such an interweaving
of sounds - we called the second wave "anti-mamalo", the undertow - the
one wave would beat against the rocks, then retreat and after pounding
on the rocks, it would meet the next wave rolling in. This was like a fugue
and many years later, when I became familiar with the music of Bach, I
understood the meaning of a fugue. Yes, indeed.
Nearby is the Church of the Chrysaphitissa Virgin. According to legend,
the Virgin came here of her own accord. The icon of the Chrysaphitissa
Virgin was from a place called Chrysapha and was found inside a well.
They say that somebody from Monemvasia dreamed that the Virgin wanted
her church to be built here in Monemvasia. When they heard about this
in Chrysapha, they claimed the icon had been stolen by the people of
Monemvasia. So they came and took it back. But the Virgin, so the story
goes, left Chrysapha and returned to this well. Another person from
Monemvasia dreamed this again and then, the people of Chrysapha
relented and left the icon here and this church was built.
Here in this church, everyone made a votive offering, everyone prayed
for something. Each person separately and everyone together. They all made
requests: for calm, tranquillity, happiness, health, peace. This was the general
request and if you summed up all the wishes one-by-one, all the desires
one-by-one, you could see that all human beings have a single desire.
Therefore all human beings are similar. This is precisely the point where I
became aware of people's similarity, beyond colour, beyond race, beyond
religion. Human life is one and the same and the need to preserve life is
the same for everybody. Every man's life is a struggle against infirmity,
sickness and death. The whole of life is a prayer for immortality. Thus,
gradually, this worldwide prayer becomes a reality - through Art -and we can
say that (in some ways) this desire for immortality is fulfilled."

CHILDHOOD

IN

MONEMVASIA

"The Church of Saint Nikolaos which used to be partially in ruins, but

has now been restored, was our primary school. I attended it from the age
of four. My nanny used to bring me, because I would fall asleep during

the lessons and I had to be carried back home in her arms. My sister was
a year older than me and since I was my mother's last child (what's the
right word? her last "suckling", eh?), she wanted me to go to school with
my sister Loula. Loula was an excellent pupil. But I didn't get along very
well with book-learning. I preferred to play with kites and marbles and
games of throwing stones. And I particularly liked painting. All my school
notebooks, instead of maths exercises in "practical" arithmetic, were full
of paintings. I was especially keen on flowers, birds, hens, suns, little
houses. I also used to draw poppies and daisies, after frantically erasing
the numbers.
Well, here in this school, occasionally they punished me by making
me stand in the comer. My sister Loula used to weep. Since she was a
very good pupil, they loved her and she would say to them: "Leave my
little brother alone." And somehow she managed to make them leave me
be. I seemed to enjoy being punished; I don't know, it was something
special. And I had no love for people who excelled in everything. A person
who excels in everything has no particular inclination; he has no
preference, he hasn't made a choice. So, on the one hand, I used to hum
any little song I liked. On the other hand, I used to paint and sometimes
I even pulled my teacher's newspaper away and kept him from reading.
Of course, I paid for all this. But in life, one always pays and by
paying with certain punishments, one gains a great deal. I believe that a
human being who has never been punished in his life doesn't know what
it means to violate something forbidden. And since life is full of things
which have been forbidden, I learned to work on poetry, transcending all
these "bans". This is why my art (as many people have admitted) never
obeyed the word "Don't". So, from the time I was a small child, I learned
to enjoy my punishments. I even learned to enjoy the fact that at some
point, I'd been made to stand in a corner. For me to be stuck there in
the corner, must mean that something special was happening with me.
Therefore, though I felt rather resentful at first, I in turn, made all the
persons who had punished me stand in the corner. Many other persons
also punished me later on, very important persons. But according to my
own credo, I made them stand in the corner. And from all this, I gained
the pleasure of transcending the punishments; and indeed, thanks to them,
I was able to see and derive the strength to resist every unjust "ban" and
consequently, every form of injustice. In this school I learned as an
apprentice not only the alphabet, not only painting and music and poetry.
I also received the first essential lessons about the way a person should
confront life. Now, what I achieved, only Time will tell. "

THE F A M I L Y
First excerpt from Loula Ritsou-Glezou's biography "The Childhood and
Adolescence of My Brother Yannis Ritsos":
Our mother was a lovely and refined human being. She was fairly
tall and always slender, with chestnut-brown hair and delicate features.
She dressed simply, in good taste, and she had a great liking for the

colour mauve. Our mother's education was enriched by continuously reading Greek as welt as foreign literature of her era. She loved us deeply
and had ambitions for her children. Without showing off her knowledge,
she offered us and our cousins all the good things she had gleaned from
studying these books.
"There is no one here and yet, no one is missing. This is not a
monologue, but a dialogue. With all of you, I'm speaking. With you, Mother,
Father, and you there, my Brother with your everlasting smile. And you,
Mother, lovely Mother, incomparable Mother, you who taught your younger
son the meaning of love. In teaching me the meaning of love, you planted
love in my heart. From love we start and love we attain. Here I sit smoking
like the funnel of a ship which has sailed past, constantly traveling and
constantly returning, making a circle, the circle of the world, because the
whole of life, the whole history of Mankind is a circle - no, not a circle,
better call it a spiral, a rising upwards, evolving spiral, always higher,
always higher, until it meets the infinite (the endless has no end!). Endless
and infinite; living this for only a moment, you have lived it forever and
it's as if you exist always. And you do exist, isn't that so? You exist, I
exist, they exist."

HIGH SCHOOL IN GYTHION

Second excerpt from Loula Ritsou-Glezou's biography "The Childhood and
Adolescence of My Brother Yannis Ritsos":
In September of 1921, approximately three weeks after the death of
our Mimis, we went to Gythion with Father in order to enroll in the high
school there. The two of us lived in Gythion four years. Luckily, that very
year, entrance exams were discarded and we were able to enroll with only
the certificate from our previous Greek school. I first heard this when I
visited the high school to ask about the dates for exams. I was thrilled
and delighted and immediately went straight to the office to deliver our
school certificate. So here we were, studying in the first year of high
school. That new law was a godsend.
Orphans and outcastes, we sought refuge in Gythion. We wanted an
education in order to be equipped for life. To escape the destiny pursuing us. We settled here, first in one house, then in another. Here, we
lived the years of our adolescence.
We stayed with Mother's unmarried younger brother and sister, Uncle
Nikos and Aunt Olga Vouzounara. They lived in an old two-storey house,
called the Tzanetakis Tower, located on the "Islet" of Kranai on the outskirts of Gythion. Those high school years were difficult and harsh. But
for me, they remained the most beautiful years of my life. To be sure,
there was no lack of poverty and privation; and we never enjoyed the
endearments of our loved ones. And yet, we'd embarked on a new path
and somehow felt more calm. Until the thorn of our Mother's death created new wounds. On the 11th of November, she died far away from us
and was buried in an unfamiliar place. My only consolation was that she

died without knowing that our brother Mimis had died before her; and
now she was on her way to meet him. I saw her in my sleep full of sorrow, sitting on a chair in our front room; her heart ached wondering how
we, her two orphans, would get along in life. "Don't grieve", I answered
her. "We'll make our way just as you told us to". And I could see her
smiling. Yannis wept a great deal for Mother's death. In front of him, I
never wept. Only at night, when he'd gone to sleep, I used to steal down
from our little room and go outside to the rocks. There, I let my heart
express itself, though it appeared to be made of stone in front of my
younger brother. Indeed, at times, when I couldn't see anything through
my tears, I longed to fall into the sea and abandon myself to the waves,
once and for all to end my unhappy life. But how would my brother be
able to live on his own?

L I V I N G IN A L I G H T H O U S E
Third excerpt from Loula Ritsou-Glezou's biography "The Childhood and
Adolescence of My Brother Yannis Ritsos":
As of September, once again we stayed in a house on the "Islet" of
Kranai. It belonged to the lighthouse- keeper, Kophinas. We used to climb
up into the lighthouse and gaze at its light illumining the sea in the distance, to keep the boats from being wrecked. We stayed one year, an
unforgettable year, in his home.
SONG FOR MY SISTER
(written in honour of Loula Ritsou-Glezou)
Dear sister,
only you are still here
for me to rest near your heart
and listen to the pulse of human beings.
Under the domed circles of your eyes,
my life traveled on.
You came, gentle and kind-hearted
at evening-time when I was bowed down
and mute, writing wrathful verses
about the never silenced wars
of light and blood.
I could guess your presence
behind the night.
The honeysuckle
of the tender hours
filled my ashen shelter
as soon as your footstep was heard.
When you smiled
the whole sky entered
my terrace-room.
Sparkling blue reflections

undulated on the walls

and the memory of the countryside
rippled at my touch.
When I returned overburdened
from my nocturnal ramblings
and the proud bitterness of isolation,
I used to find a love-feast
steaming hot on the table
and childhood memory
like a delicate butterfly
playing around your lamp.
You stayed awake
awaiting my return.
And whenever I,
the lover of the Infinite,
was sunk in shadows
and airy doubts,
you
with your warm index finger
showed me the tracks on the ground
again and re-shaped my ashes
in human form.

DIFFICULT YEARS

IN

ATHENS

"The difficulties I faced from poverty, (having to share a single

koulouri-roll with my sister and weeping at night, because of having
nothing else to eat) ... all these things I don't want to mention. They're
wretched and miserable. How can I say that my sister had to take a
cashier's job in a grocery-store in Havteia [near Omonoia Square] and I was
obliged to work in the law office of Angeletopoulos, where I learned to
type. He had a huge library, and when he was away, I used to choose
books of poetry and read Palamas, Sikelianos, Porphyras, then Gryparis,
all these poets. Well, at times he saw me when he came back and caught
me in the act. "Ah, so you too read poetry!" Of course, ever since my
childhood, I'd been writing, poor me.
Afterwards, I went to work at the notary's office of Miliopoulos Economopoulos, who was considered "important", because he was exactly
nextdoor to the National Bank! There, I copied contracts. I had a job in
the library and also in the secretary's office of the Lawyers' Council [the
Greek "Bar"], because of my good handwriting. Eh, then I got sick. After
that, I set out for Monemvasia and for some time, stayed by myself in
Koniaris' hotel."

THE FIRST S T R U G G L E WITH T U B E R C U L O S I S

Last excerpt from Loula Ritsou-Glezou's biography "The Childhood and
Adolescence of My Brother Yannis Ritsos":

In the winter of 1926, I woke up full of anxiety one morning. I'd

rather have been struck by thunder. Yannis was leaning over the old-fashioned wash-basin in our room. The basin was completely red. He'd had
a fit of spitting blood. I wiped off the blood and washed him. He lay
down on the bed. I rushed out, wending my way through the streets towards Omonia Square. Where could I find a doctor? I reached Omonia.
Daybreak. The early morning traffic had started on the streets...... I remember the day I accompanied Yannis to Sotiria Sanatorium, on the 22nd
of February, 1927. I kept a tight grip on his hand, to give him courage.
I caressed his head and whispered to him not to be alarmed, because
his was one of the light cases. After arriving at the hospital, we cast
furtive glances at the surroundings. In the midst of pine-trees, there were
old buildings covered with discoloured paint and cracked bits of plaster.
Here the first and second class patients stayed. Most of the third class
patients were housed in huts made out of rough planks and tin roofs.
In general, a depressing atmosphere, even when the patients were able
to enjoy a bit of winter sun. They stared at us from their benches and
we quickened our pace...
Yannis arranged his things in the cupboard, undressed and put on his
pyjamas. He hung his clothes on a nail and lay down on the iron bed.

F R I E N D S H I P WITH THE POET M A R I A

(in the Sotiria Sanatorium for Tubercular Patients)

POLYDOURI

"At that time, I was eighteen years old. In the room where I used to
play the piano, I met Maria Polydouri for the first time. And she dedicated
a poem of hers to me in her first book.
THE HEAVY HEART
How can you look at me so sweetly, my joyful young flower,
fearlessly revealing all your graceful ways to me?
Ah, I have a very heavy heart ... but I will never tell you so,
because it's better for you to be carefree and content. "

P O L I T I C A L EXILE ON THE I S L A N D OF L E M N O S
AND ON MAKRONISSOS
"In Kontopouli on the island of Lemnos I began to write my "Diaries
of Exile" on the 27th of October, 1948. [ A year later, on the exile-island
of Makronissos] I had to stay in the so-called yellow shack, which was a
kind of "stable", full of the Germans' vehicles. That's where they kept all
of us who were ill, all the disabled, as well as all the men mutilated by
the torturers' thrashings. They'd rounded us up there. In the tents in the
detention camp for political prisoners, (when we were at Ai - Yoryi). There
were twelve so-called "cages", with a row of tents; and there were about
twenty-two of us left. These were large tents, which had poles fastened
tight by ropes - really large tents.

When I moved to the military camp, they transported us there. They'd

put me in a tent by myself, far away from all the other men, in order to
break my nerves. No communication at all was allowed and they came for
me every night and took me up to the commanding officer's headquarters.
I've described certain scenes when they came. Some men wept, because the
poor things had given up under torture. They sobbed: "How will you get
along? We're stronger than you. But you who are used to more comfort and
are more sensitive than the rest of us, you're a man of the spirit. (At that
time, I'd lost a lot of weight and was very thin). How will you manage all
on your own, absolutely alone, without a single companion, without anything
at all? How will you be able to cope?" And they burst into tears. I tried to
console them and kept telling them: "You mustn't weep. And don't beg my
pardon for what you've done, because I also want to do the same. But some
uncompromising force refuses to give in and prevents me from doing so.
My feelings about this time in isolation, I express in my poem entitled
"Farewell", where I describe my psychological condition back then, in terms
of another person: Grigoris Avxendiou, the Cypriot [freedom-fighter], who
was imprisoned and burnt alive in the cave near the Monastery of
Mahairas. I had precisely the same feelings. In fact, the people who knew
about my life [on Makronissos] commented immediately [about the poem]:
"It's you on Makronissos".
FAREWELL
(From Ritsos' long poem about the Cypriot freedom-fighter, Avxentiou)
The lies are at an end now - our own and other people's lies.
The fire, omnipotent, is close at hand. You can no longer
discern if it's lentisk or fern or wild thyme burning.
The fire's closing in.
The other four men are gone. Godspeed! How quiet it is as if a child is about to be born or a martyr about to die
and you're waiting
for the sound of some enormous outcry (the child's or God's)
an outcry more powerful than the silence
that will cast down the walls of before and after and now,
so that you'll be able
to remember and foresee and live all things together
in a single timeless moment...
Maybe I'd be capable of escaping. Maybe I could stand
the scorn or forgiveness or even the forgetfulness
of other people. But could I ever
forget the light we dreamed of together? That grand
heartbeat of our banner? Could I ever
feel at ease in a shady corner with my arms folded
around my crossed knees,
like some spiteful spider, grumbling or uninvolved
spinning its webs merely out of its own spittle?

Beautiful the way the reflections of the water played

against the sides of the boats beautiful
also the shadows of the boats in the water. Shadows
of the seagulls flying by
above the breakwater, above the round little tables
in the open-air cafeneion
full of coffee-cups; and as we sat there chatting,
we three old friends,
without raising our head at all,
we could sense the presence of the seagulls above us,
and together with our coffee, we drank something
of the seagulls' fleeting shadow,
a taste of spaciousness and friendship and freedom.

POLITICAL EXILE ON THE I S L A N D OF LEMNOS

AND ON MAKRONISSOS (continued)
[As for the general conditions of exile there:] The prisoners' legs and
arms were wrapped in - what's the word? - scraps of cardboard. They didn't
have any bandages. And as soon as they began to recover, they had to
go through the last ordeal. Down below the 7th Sector, there was a theatre,
an open-air theatre. The spotlights were turned on at night, around twelve
or one 0' clock, and up above there, were our tents and the hill (for all
of us who'd moved there). The spotlights were switched on over the
theater-stage and the Military Police started thrashing and the other men
waited their turn down below. Most of the signatures [for recantation] were
extorted in the course of this ordeal.
I could hear a few frightened men howling: "Mama dear, Holy Mother
of God, father, mother, mother dear". And one could see huge strong men
groaning away and one saw all this brightly lit while one waited one's turn
down below. Now, speaking of terror and panic and expectation of death
- not a brave death, standing up against the wall to face this pain and
fear once and for all. Not this way, but being forced to stand there every
day, when they made you close your eyes and afterwards, made you open
your eyes again, abandoning you there after telling you: "The execution has
been postponed!".
Eh, when you talk about all this, detached from these specific
circumstances (without this superabundance of emotion) all the conflicting
feelings: on the one hand, your willpower to stand firm and strong inside
yourself (in a word, not to bow down); but on the other hand, your being
forced to face pain and fear. And at such moments, in this specific case,
there is more fear than pain. That's why the pain and the fear of the
impending threat were often expressed with a scream or with laughter or
with madness, or sometimes, with such a surplus of feeling that it cannot
possibly be reconstructed and described.
When we lived separately from one another, we carried on a kind of
secret correspondence among ourselves. Certain soldiers who were willing

and trustworthy, used to bring me letters from some of my comrades and

also used to deliver letters of mine. If you read these letters, they're not
the words of a father to his son or a son to his father. They are like love
letters: eros in the superlative degree, beyond all limits and beyond all
Measure... At that time, everything was at the tensest, highest level of
emotion... And as you well know, the greatest danger for every form of Art
is emotional exaggeration.
[Well now, concerning that fine artist and actor, my friend and fellowprisoner,] Manos Katrakis: he too sent me letters. And whenever he saw
that I was awake, he used to say to me: "A bit of coffee, have a bit of
coffee". He'd improvised a kind of spirit-stove with concentrated alcohol and
he held the tiny coffee-"pot" on his lap and made coffee for me. Katrakis
also used to go out on his own, in secret, to pick wild greens. At his own
risk, he would stay there and boil them in a pot and add a bit of oil.
Then he's say: "Eat them- eat, eat". And he would hand me the greens
which he had picked, endangering his own life, if they caught him... Among
all the men who were able to endure all this... there was a kind of
solidarity, a unique and amazing kind of concord. "
THE DIARIES OF EXILE
(Excerpts from THE DIARIES OF EXILE)
Many things are hard for us. Many.
We must wash our dishes and our clothes
carrying water from the tap in big jugs
we must sweep the barrack two or three times each day
we must sew patches on our socks as well as on our words.
Yesterday's comments make holes quickly
faces change even while you're looking at them
even you may change - because while looking at your hands
you realize how they've grown used to these tasks
these days, these sheets
they know the wooden board of the table, they know the lamp
they repeat the very same movement with more assurance. (...)
At noontime five old men called me
made me some coffee offered me a cigarette
talked about Saint Dionysis' church up there in Litohori
and the watery hand of the Saint who got rid of the bad shepherds
Five old men with gentle eyes and white moustaches
day and night they sit there making cigarette-cases with beads
affixing tiny bits and pieces of coloured straw
small as the head of a pin and every now and then, flower - pots
with geraniums, and two Greek flags
one on land and one on the sea, a few five-pointed stars;
they are good old men - though I could not hear their words
and this is what makes me ponder. They said to me "my child".
But I could not say "father" ...

P O L I T I C A L EXILE ON A I - S T R A T I
"After Makronissos, we were taken to Ai-Strati..."
[The conditions of exile on Ai-Strati were better than on Makronissos.
There were no tortures. Officially accepted (no longer only secret)
communication was allowed, in the form of censored "postcard" messages
posted to relatives and friends. There were also various creative activities,
including musical events (Ritsos participated by playing the mandolin), as
well as theatrical performances and dancing. Meanwhile, because of his
serious problem with tuberculosis, a campaign had been organized abroad
to release Ritsos from political exile. Eminent artists (including Aragon,
Picasso and Neruda) expressed their moral support for the Greek Poet.]

P O L I T I C A L EXILE ON THE DEVIL'S I S L A N D

OF Y I A R O S A N D IN PARTHENI LEROS
[Many years later, when the Seven Year Dictatorship of the Colonels
began in 1967, Ritsos was arrested immediately and exiled - first on the
uninhabited island of Yiaros and then, in the Partheni detention-camp on
the distant island of Leros. Ritsos described an unknown aspect of this
other period of exile (1967-1968), as follows:]
"On the island of Yiaros, during my second exile, Vasso Katrakis, [the
distinguished artist,] used to select beautiful smooth pebbles on which she
painted young girls and suns. That's where I said, what a good idea! You
can use the stone, not for its solid essence, but in order to obey its dictates.
In a word, by taking the sculptural traits of the stone and emphasizing the
inside hollows so that the outer parts would show clearly, as if in relief.
This is how I started out on Yiaros. Later on, after being transferred to
Partheni Leros, I found various stones on the seashore, whenever we were
allowed to go out a while (escorted by the guard, of course), outside the
camp enclosure, where I could select my stones. Many other fellow-prisoners
also chose stones for me, knowing how much I loved them. So I started
painting: a sculptural sort of painting, so to speak. All of a sudden, Greek
forms began to flood me, which were related to ancient Greece and ancient
Greek forms. At times, I followed the line of Knossos; at other times the
classical. And I went on painting continuously. Only human forms and human
bodies, never landscapes. A stone is not made for painting. Sculpture as a
whole never had a single landscape - not even trees, no landscapes at all.
Only human bodies (for the most part, nude), human forms, or at the very
most, horses. So I made a pantheon of lovely girls and handsome boys,
transmitting a kind of power through their beauty and a sense of the erotic.
My fellow-prisoners often asked me: "Well now, Ritsos, how is it you make
only human forms and human bodies in the nude? You show nothing of our
torments, our suffering, our solitude, our deprivations." And I began
pondering and wondering why this was happening. First of all, because 1
don't like extremely naturalistic things, which suggest specific feelings in a
precise manner. I felt the need to contrast something which is beautiful,
something which is alive, something which is dynamic - beauty and eros -

the great eternal values of life. So I did not permit either myself or others
who could see these "endeavours" of mine, to feel that they were deprived
of life. Or that beauty was lost and the values of human existence were lost.
And in actual fact, I could see that this influenced them. As for me, it
seems I was in love with these stones and precisely this contrast of the
naked bodies. As we all know, the body is the seat of the soul and the
spirit and the human body is of prime significance. This is what I contrasted
with all the fanaticism, all the violence, all the sufferings. And I believe this
was the most simple and the most fitting initiation. "

THE S U M M E R S I N

SAMOS

(1974-1989)

[After the dark years of political exile and "house confinement", Ritsos
was free to spend every summer near the sea in Karlovassi Samos, in the
home of his wife, Falitsa Yeoryiadou-Ritsou. In his autobiographical
"Iconostasis of Anonymous Saints", Ritsos writes about Falitsa and Samos
with glowing words. A brief paragraph connected with this period is
provided in a book about the "Iconostasis" written by Amy Mims (poet and
translator of Ritsos in English):
"After 1974, when the brighter years came, Falitsa withdrew discreetly
to the sidelines, to continue her work as the dedicated doctor who visited
even the remotest villages of Samos, at any hour of the day or night. But
every summer, she offered Ritsos the beautiful seaside retreat of her rosegarden and charming little home in Karlovassi. She even had a "throne"
built for him down by the seashore, so that he could enjoy the sunset
every afternoon. (This "throne" is mentioned several times in the
"Iconostasis"). Only after 1986, when Ritsos's health became increasingly
fragile, Falitsa gave up her medical practice in Samos and came to live
permanently in Athens, as his guardian angel."
The author has also selected three particularly moving passages with
Ritsos' own words about his wife translated into English: (Available in the
three-volume edition of the English translation published by Kedros in
Athens; in 1996, 1999 and 2001.)
The first passage evoking an almost saintly quality:
"...the shadow of a seagull flying past her hand: Falitsa's hand became
like the hand of the Madonna with a shadow cast on it by an angel's
invisible wing, the hand in a dove-shaped gesture blessing something
invisible, beyond, far away, something very much our own."
The second passage supplementing the detail about his wife's and
daughter's watering the rose-garden so that his manuscripts "will never lack
colours":
"...with my four windows wide open onto the World, which Falitsa has
tidied up with her sweet expression; my dear good Falitsa, yes, yes, you
never disturb me, change the roses in all three vases in my room... but
take care not to weigh them: roses must never be weighed on any scale,
except in your own tenderness."
And the third passage commenting on the nature of mature love:
"...our old impassioned love has burnt out. Thirty whole years, you see.

But this deep fraternal tenderness goes on growing year by year, more
infinite than infinity. I wonder, will we live a few more years to enjoy our
fine, calm, prudent, wise old age while we can still work hard?"

EPITAPHIOS
Excerpts from Part 1, Part 6 and 8)
My son, offspring of my innermost womb, heart of my own heart,
Sparrow in my humble courtyard, flower of my solitude.
What has made your dear eyes close, so you are blind to my tears?
Can you no longer stir at all or hear my bitter words?
My own sweet son, you who could heal my every grievance,
you who fathomed every thought passing through my forehead.
Now can't you comfort me, can't you even breathe a word?
Can you no longer guess the wounds devouring my inner soul?
On a day in May you left me, I lost you on that Mayday,
in the springtime, my son, you loved so well and used to go
Up to the sun-blessed terrace and gaze and your eyes never
Had their fill of milking the light of the entire universe.
With one of your fingers outstretched, you showed me one-by-one
Everything lovely and good, everything misty and rosy.
You also showed me the sea sparkling so calm far out there,
and the trees and mountains covered in a fine-spun azure veil.
And all the little humble things, the birds and ants and shrubs,
and these diamond-beads of water dripping like sweat on the jug.
But my son, though you showed me the stars and wide open spaces,
I could see them still more clearly inside your own sea-blue eyes.
In your manly voice, your warm pleasant voice, you told me
so many things, more plentiful than the pebbles on the shore.
My son, you used to tell me all these fine things would be ours;
but now your flame has gone out, our glowing fire's grown cold.
Where has my dear lad flown? Where has he gone? Where am I left?
The bird-cage is empty now, not a drop of water in the fount.
(May 1936)

ROMIOSYNI
(The first six stanzas)
These
these
these
these

trees are not at ease with less sky,

stones are not at ease under foreign footsteps,
faces are not at ease except in the sunlight,
hearts are not at ease except in what is just.

This landscape is harsh as silence,

clenching the burning-hot rocks in its embrace,
clenching its orphaned olive-trees and vineyards in the light,
clenching its teeth. There is no water. Only light.
The road vanishes in the light and the shadow on the walled
enclosure is made of iron.
The trees, the rivers, the voices have turned to marble
in the quicklime of the sun.
The root stumbles against the marble. The dusty lentisk-shrubs.
The mule and the boulder. Out of breath. There is no water.
They all are thirsty. For years now. They all nibble on a
morsel of sky high above the bitter taste.
Their eyes are red from lack of sleep,
a deep furrow is wedged between their eyebrows
like a cypress-tree between two mountains at sunset.
Their arm is welded to the rifle,
the rifle's an extension of their arm,
their arm is an extension of their soul they have anger upon their lips
and deep, very deep inside their eyes, they have burning grief
like a star in a hollow pit of salt.
When they clench their fist, the sun is sure
about the world,
when they smile, a tiny swallow flies out
through their wild beards,
when they're asleep, twelve stars fall from
their empty pockets,
when they are killed, life climbs the upward path
with banners and with drums.

"GRANITE TIME"
Excerpts from "GRANITE TIME" - the Makronissos poems)
A. B. C.
Three big letters
Whitewashed on the backbone of Makronissos
When we were on our way here by boat
crowded between the bundles and our own suspicions
we could read them high above the deck
under the gendarme's curses, we read them
on that calm morning in July,
and the brine and scent of origan and thyme
could not understand the meaning of these three
whitewashed letters.)
Battalion A.
Battalion B.
Battalion C.
MAKRONISSOS.
And the Aegean Sea was blue as always
extremely blue, only blue.
A. B. C.
300 executed men.
A. B. C.
600 madmen.
A. B. C.
900 lame men.
Long live
King Paul!
A. B. C.
A. B. C.
(We used to discuss poetry of the Aegean Sea, yes, yes, yes)

MAKRONISSOS

Excerpts from "NEIGHBOURHOODS OF THE WORLD"

(Written in exile on Makronissos and Ai-Strati)
Our days were bitter. Very bitter.
The shadow of a cypress-tree measured the whole world,
measure for measure.
Every man carried a corpse upon his shoulders,
every single instant we carried death on our own shoulders.
Hastily we threw our dead onto the Town Hall cart.
We had no time to weep. We were hungry.
It was snowing. At daybreak we were terribly cold.
All in all our dream was a trifle and round like a round
loaf of bread,
calm and sad like a drop of olive-oil in a porringer
of dandelion-greens,
secret like the first word exchanged by coal-miners
slightly before the strike,
our dream was a trifle and carefully concealed inside our heart
like that scrap of paper with the Party line concealed
inside the proletarian's shoe.
We used to talk in the small underground cell.
We never switched on the light. It was dark.
We watched our own voice like an unfamiliar woman
walking nude in the other brightly lit room. We could see her.
She could not see us. We could stare at her
Without shame. It was dark. The window was open.
And the stars leapt over the window-sill, scurrying under
the wooden bed,
and the gramophone in the neighborhood taverna blared hoarsely
on a Saturday evening,
and you became more aware that the bread was missing,
that the voice of the yoghurt-vendor in the old days was missing
from the air,
and you were also aware that the kiss was missing
and still more aware that you shouldn't mind the missing kiss
and its being Springtime. Alekos said:
"Imagine life taking its course, but you yourself are missing,
springtimes returning with so many open windows, but you yourself
are missing,
young girls flocking to the benches in the garden, dressed
in many-coloured frocks, but you yourself are missing ...

EXILE AND HEROES OF GREEK HISTORY

"How can you talk about the other things, the large and hard and
stupendous things - Makronissos, Yiaros, Acronafplia, Kolokotronis in the

dark dungeon of Palamidi, the Occupation, the December events, the Civil
War, April 21st, the tanks, the Military Prison of Avlona - Tatakis, Yemelos,
Beloyannis, Ploumbides, Aris, Lambrakis and our own Electra (not
Sophocles' - they say some poet dealt with her again in the "Dead House",
in "Under the Shadow of the Mountain", and in "Chrysothemis", as well
as in other works, or "Antigone" and "Ismene"; no); I mean our own
Electra, with the burnt body, the burnt hair - martyrs and heroes - they
themselves said all these things, all by themselves once and for all,
without words; and when you talk about them, it's as though you're
sticking your nose into it, and your tone of voice takes on an element of
misappropriation and boastfulness (particularly in the case of those who've
never been in prison and never been executed), something incongruously
didactic (and who are you mate? - You wouldn't want to say who you are
because then, you'd appear still more boastful), in the last analysis,
something like self-seeking propaganda ..."
(Excerpt from Book 2 of Iconostasis of Anonymous Saints , page 232)

THE END OF THE JOURNEY

(Excerpt from "The Old Women and the Sea")
The hour of wrath is past,
the hour of confession is past,
the hour of explanation is past,
the hour of desire is past.
When the tongue clings to silence, as flesh to the bone
this is an act completed before and beyond death,
this is like the outcry intact no longer needing
to be uttered and it lingers.
But sometimes you cannot stand the silence with all
its heaviness and lightness
and then, you set out to do something nothing important
for instance, you might embroider a tiny flower
on the faded yellow satin
on that wreath dangling from the Crucifix.

THE ENDLESS SPIRAL OF EXISTANCE

(Repetition of the Theme)
"Here I sit smoking like the funnel of a ship which has sailed past,
constantly traveling and constantly returning, making a circle, the circle
of the world, because the whole of life, the whole history of Mankind is
a circle no, not a circle, better call it a spiral, a rising upward, evolving
spiral, always higher, always higher, until it meets the infinite, (the
endless has no end). Endless and infinite; in living this for only a
moment, you have lived it for ever and it's as if you exist always. And
you do exist, isn't that so? You exist, I exist, they exist. Eternal human
existence. "

169

.
.

(3)
.
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1915 ).

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170

1918-1929

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172

1930-1937

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1943 ).

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173

( )
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174

1938-1948

: (1935 - 1942).
(1943)
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I.
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(1935 - 1936), 1933
.

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( 1958 '
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- , . 1975
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).

(-1947. . 1961
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()
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.
: , 27.10 23.11,
24-11 3111949 18.1. - 1.6.1950 (. 1975
).

175

. ,
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,
.
: (. 1961 ') - (. 1957) -
(-1951. . 1957).

() .

.
:
. 1954
.
(-1960, . 1964 ').

, : , , ..,
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, , .
1952) - (-1953. . 1958).

(-1964, . 1975
').
( ) ,
(1951 - 1952 , . 1953).

()
, ,
.
: ( 1941 - 1953
).
(-1960, . 1964
).
176

1949-1958

(),
.
: (. 1955) (-1972 . 1974)

, .
35 .
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( ).
: ( 6
).
: (. 1956) -
(-1959. . 1964 ').
( ):
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,

.
( )
Louis Aragon : ,
, ' ,
.
: (1949) - 0 (1949
- 1951).
: (. 1957) -
(. 1957) - , 6 (. 1957) - ' (-1963, .
1963).
: .

22
(14 - 15 ) .
:
, , 40
.
.
.
177

: (1952 - 1953) - '

, (1945)
: (. 1958) -
(. 1958) - (. 1975 )
- (. 1959) - ( 1975 ').

, , ,
. .

(-1960).
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(1958) -

, (1942 - 1943).
: (. 1962) - (. 1960) (. 1989 ')
- , (. 1990) - , (. 1990).

: (1959) (1959).
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- ' (
1964 ') -

- (-1965, 1975
') - (. 1989
').
:
, (. - .).
: ' (1930 - 1942) '
(1941 - 1958).
: ,
(. 1961) - (-1962, . 1975
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: .

6 ,
.
-

1959-1964

. .
: (1959) - '
(1960).
: (. 1963) -
(-1966, . 1966) - (. 1967) - (1971. . 1975 ') - -
(. 1989 ').

22
( ).
.
29
. Index .
: ' (1957 - 1963) -
(1962).
: 12 (. 1963) -
( 1975
) - (-1965, . 1965) -
' (-1965, . 1989 ).
: - ,
.

4
.
: ' (1939 - 1960) - '
(1960).
: ' (-1965 . 1966) - (-1971 . 1975
').
: .
:
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.
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(1929). :
.

179

: (1963 - 1965).
: (1970. . 1972 ).
: , (
).
:
(1929), :
.
,
.

.
: (1945 - 1947) - (1962 - 1966) -
' (1964 - 1965).
: (. 1989 ') (-1971) (-1970. 1972
).
: -

- - 0
.
:
.
.
(1929), :
.

(2
) 6 , .
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.
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: (1962).
: (. 1984) - (-1970)
(-1969. 1972 ) -
(-1969, . 1975 ) -
(-1971. . 1974)

180

1965-1970

,
.

().
, , ' .
.
: , , (-1969
1971. ,
Gallimard Pierres Repetitions Barreaux
Aragon. 1972) -
(. 1973)

, ,
.
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.
: (-1970, . 1972) -
(. 1974)

, ' ,
.

(London's Poetry Secretariat of International Poetry
Festival) .
,
.
().
8 .
,
, '
.
Mainz
().

, ,
, .
39
: (. 1973) (-1971 . 1975
') - (. 1972
) - (. 1977 ) -
(-1974. . 1974)

181

: (. 1976) - (-1972,
. 1972 ) - (-1972, . 1980)
(. 1975 ').

Knokke - Le
- Zoute .
: (1968 - 1969) -
(1956 - 1972),
. 1978 (1974 - 1975) (1967 - 1970) - (1966 -1971) -
(1971 - 1972).
: (. 1974) - (. 1982) - (. 1973) - (-1973. . 1979) -
(-1973. . 1993 ').

.
11 , : .

,
.
: (1968 - 1973)
- (1970). (1972).
: - - (1974. 1977 ) -
( 1973
').
:

.

().
: (1969) -
(1967 - 1971) - (1972) - (1970 - 1974)
- (1949) - (1955 - 1971, , , , ) - -
- .
: (. 1974) -
(-1975) (-1975 1977 182

1971-1976

) - (-1975. . 1978 ) (-1976, . 1982) - - (

1993 ').
:
, 2 ( ).
,
.
,
.

.

.
Alfred de Vingy.

.
.
:
( 23, 19 ).
: (1945 - 1969)
' (1938 - 1971).
: (1945 - 1947) -
(1945) - (1948 - 1950) -
(1967 - 1969) - (1942).
: (. 1977) - (. 1977
) - - - ( 1977 ').
:
.
.

- ( ).
Seregno Brianza.
:
I.
, (. ).
( 32-33. - )

: (1971).
: - ( 1977
) - (. 1978) - ; (. 1978) -
(. 1987 ) -
( 1999 ').
:
. .
. .
. , . .

.

, 6
.

().
:
- - (
).
Soviet Writer's

Cohgress/The

debate on

Socialist Realism

and

Moderkism (Lawrence ahd Wishart, London).

, ( -
: , . ).
: (1975) - ( 1970
- 1977).
: (. 1977 ) -
(-1978, . 1980) - - -
- - (
1999 ').
:
, .
, .
12 (
).

.
, .

.
Mondello .
184

1977-1980

:
(. ).
(.

).

: ; (1976) - (1976) -
(1937) - (1975) - (1973
- 1974) - (1976) -
(1977) - (1974 - 1975) - (1974 - 1975) (1974 - 1975) - (1973).
: (-1979. . 1984 ).

.
,
.
.
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) ( - )
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: (-1981, . 1984 ) - (. 1980).
:
(
).
(
).

.
:

(. ).
: (1977 - 1978) - (1979) -
(1971 - 1972).
: (-1981, . 1981) - (-1981, .
1984 ).

185

()
,
: , , , , ' '
, , ,
. 1974 - 1976.
1975. 1975 - 1976, 1975
1976. .
( ).
:

(. ).
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(. ).
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(. ).
( 8, ).
: (1938) - , 40 ( 1931
- 1981).
: (-1982, . 1989).
: .
:
( ).

:
. -
(. ).
; (1972) - (1974 - 1976) -
(1976 - 1980) -
(, 1942).
: (. 1984 )
- 3 111 (. 1987).

.
.

, (26
- 30 ).
86

1981-1985

:
-
(. ).
(. ).
: (1960) - (1964 1971).
: (, . 1983) -
(, . 1984) - (. 1984
).
:
,
.
, .

.
.
, (22 - 25
) (29 - 1 ).
25

(4 ).
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).
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).
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(1967) - (1977 - 1983. ).
: ' (, . 1985) -
(, . 1985) - (, . 1985)
- ' (, . 1986) -
(, . 1986).

: ,
.
: ' (, 1984) -
(, 1984) -

(, 1984).

: (, . 1986)
(. 1987).

:
. , . , . : 1
.

.
.
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:
.. -
(. ).
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(, 1984) - (,
1985).

. .
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:
.. (.
).
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Mario Vitti (. ).
: (1985) -

3 111 (1982).

: (
1991 , ).
:
, 3
.
. 7 - , .
, , .

:
( 205, 21 ).
: , (. 1991) -
(. 1991 , ).
: .
188

1986-1995

: ,
()
' .

().
:
(
).
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') - (1963 - 1972, ').
:
().

- .
11 14
.
: (, 1959) -
(, 1959) - ,
.

:
:
( 1.547. 1991).
: , (1987 - 1989) -
, (
).

:
1924 - 1989
(.
),
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:
- (.
).

:
,
, 1949 - 1952,
(. ..).
: ' (1975 - 1976).

: ' (1976 - 1977).

: (1934 - 1989). (. ).

:
Amy Mims Ritsos of the lconostasis -
().

:
- , (.
).

..
3 1989

190

 1983,

( ): - , - , ,
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.
: film 16 mm, , video
Beta SP, 78'.
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1984. 5 - 16 1984. 17 1984.
20 1984. 25 1984.

195

( 1909 - 1990)

: 1909 - 2009
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