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Quote by Sophocles

“None but a fool or an infant could forget a father gone so far and cold. No. Lament is a pattern cut and fitted around my mind—like the bird who calls Itys! Itys! endlessly, bird of grief, angel of Zeus. O heartdragging Niobe, I count you a god: buried in rock yet always you weep.”

Quote by Sophocles

Book:Electra

Work

Electra

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Author

Sophocles
Sophocles

Sophocles, born in 498 BC and died in 406 BC, was a renowned Greek tragic playwright. He is one of the three greatest tragic poets of ancient Greece, alongside Aeschylus and Euripides. Sophocles' works profoundly revealed the complexity of human nature and social contradictions, exerting a profound influence on subsequent drama. more

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“A Hymn I sang When I Found You (Poem) ****** You opened your arms to me and my eyes to see. You embraced me like your own. In your soul, You covered me with strength. You opened my life with your breath. Your comfort embraces my heart like what paint is to art, and jokes are to comedy, and religion is to a prophecy, and guitars are to music. Importantly, you adorn me as artists do to the muse. You swallowed me with your mind. Sewn my broken pieces back into one, and loved me throughout your research. Like what members are to the church, and grapes are to wine, and mud is to a swine. I was lost, Now, I'm perfectly found at most. In your love, I'm pulled. Complete and full without a piece amiss. I'm washed with plenty a kiss. A perfect melody! Long gone are the days of melancholy. Because no strange songs are sung. You pierce into me like the sun and comfort me like charms. Mostly, you sing me a lullaby in your arms.”

“Just as Prometheus delivered stolen fire to man, so Eve, and the serpent, delivered man into self-consciousness, setting him up, were it not for his short lifespan, as rival to God. At the same time, man’s self-consciousness removed him from nature into a life of toil, doubt, fear, guilt, shame, blame, enmity, loneliness, and frailty—and the product of this separation, the fruit and flower of this exile, is, of course, culture. ‘God,’ said the writer Victor Hugo, ‘made only water, but man made wine.”