process of the creation of epic poetry has come to an end in Albania. The second view is that the process is still alive. And the third view is a compromise; even if the age of the Albanian epic is effectively over, the embers are still hot and could throw out some last bright sparks. The same scholar
,
takes the view that even though the production of new epics is dying out, the foundry itself, however derelict it may have become, is still actually there
.
So we must hurry. Make haste before the embers go cold! Before the foundry collapses!
âBefore the embers go cold â¦,â the governor repeated to himself. In his mind, which had been shaped by detective mysteries âembersâ summoned up images of
sleepers
, agents who had been put in place long ago., then of a nunnery, then of an old conspiracy, then, suddenly changing direction, it took his mind back to his wifeâs sexual organ.
âStop that now!" he exclaimed, and put his head down into the papers again. He would force himself to read them, even if they were in hieroglyphics!
How does living material, on more prosaically, inanimate raw material, bow does material in general enter the epic machinery that turns it into art?
That is another chapter, just as fascinating as the question of forgetting
.
The Germans claim firmly that you can still find Albanian rhapsodes who convert contemporary events into epic poetry (who can Homerize modern life). It would be really extraordinarily good fortune to see such a miracle happening before our eyes
.
Every time the question of this transformation arises, I think back to an old, long-abandoned tannery on the outskirts of Dublin, not far from where I lived. Thatâs how I imagine the ancient Homeric workshop
.
When an event goes through those old rollers, belts, and vats of dark and sinister liquid, what happens to it? How do the rhapsodes' lungs, brains, fantasies, passions, and even their heredity contribute to the process?
It is all rather like an embalming process. Yet itâs not a corpse that is being treated, but a piece of life, an event, most often an unhappy one
.
At bottom, epic poetry itself, seen as a whole, is no more than a kind of morgue. Itâs no coincidence if the climate of the epic is always cold, indeed colder than cold. The temperature is always below zero. Moreover, there is a formulaic phrase that comes back time and again, like a refrain:
This sun shines brightly but gives little warmthâ¦.
The governor reread the preceding passage and then underlined the words in the middle of the pageâ
dark and sinister liquid
, trying all the while to keep his mind off Daisyâs body. But he couldnât because the notes became once againâ just like a novel â¦
I canât get to sleep. The lights of the city twinkle through the windowpanes. As they go out one by one, I feel as if I'm floating in the Milky Way
.
There are billboards out there, one advertising ketchup and another vitamins that are good for the eyes. My optician prescribed that for me
.
I imagine our two names, Bill Norton and Max Ross, alongside Homerâs (good God, like two assistants helping a blind man across
the street!) in newspaper headlines and on the illuminated news display
.
"Yes, go blind, then the two of you blinder than your hero!â the governor exclaimed and enjoyed the relief that he always felt when he uttered a curse.
"Well now â¦,â he said a few seconds later, as he came across the words
happy day
. âLetâs see what made our two dickey birds so happy."
Oh, happy day! Day of surprises. And of luck
.
I could easily believe in divine intervention. Canât be a coincidence that the magical elements
magnés
and
phone,
which make up the original word for the machine, seem to come from ancient times
.
What has brought magic to this day, and to our forthcoming pilgrimage, and to our whole enterprise, is the word made up
,
takes the view that even though the production of new epics is dying out, the foundry itself, however derelict it may have become, is still actually there
.
So we must hurry. Make haste before the embers go cold! Before the foundry collapses!
âBefore the embers go cold â¦,â the governor repeated to himself. In his mind, which had been shaped by detective mysteries âembersâ summoned up images of
sleepers
, agents who had been put in place long ago., then of a nunnery, then of an old conspiracy, then, suddenly changing direction, it took his mind back to his wifeâs sexual organ.
âStop that now!" he exclaimed, and put his head down into the papers again. He would force himself to read them, even if they were in hieroglyphics!
How does living material, on more prosaically, inanimate raw material, bow does material in general enter the epic machinery that turns it into art?
That is another chapter, just as fascinating as the question of forgetting
.
The Germans claim firmly that you can still find Albanian rhapsodes who convert contemporary events into epic poetry (who can Homerize modern life). It would be really extraordinarily good fortune to see such a miracle happening before our eyes
.
Every time the question of this transformation arises, I think back to an old, long-abandoned tannery on the outskirts of Dublin, not far from where I lived. Thatâs how I imagine the ancient Homeric workshop
.
When an event goes through those old rollers, belts, and vats of dark and sinister liquid, what happens to it? How do the rhapsodes' lungs, brains, fantasies, passions, and even their heredity contribute to the process?
It is all rather like an embalming process. Yet itâs not a corpse that is being treated, but a piece of life, an event, most often an unhappy one
.
At bottom, epic poetry itself, seen as a whole, is no more than a kind of morgue. Itâs no coincidence if the climate of the epic is always cold, indeed colder than cold. The temperature is always below zero. Moreover, there is a formulaic phrase that comes back time and again, like a refrain:
This sun shines brightly but gives little warmthâ¦.
The governor reread the preceding passage and then underlined the words in the middle of the pageâ
dark and sinister liquid
, trying all the while to keep his mind off Daisyâs body. But he couldnât because the notes became once againâ just like a novel â¦
I canât get to sleep. The lights of the city twinkle through the windowpanes. As they go out one by one, I feel as if I'm floating in the Milky Way
.
There are billboards out there, one advertising ketchup and another vitamins that are good for the eyes. My optician prescribed that for me
.
I imagine our two names, Bill Norton and Max Ross, alongside Homerâs (good God, like two assistants helping a blind man across
the street!) in newspaper headlines and on the illuminated news display
.
"Yes, go blind, then the two of you blinder than your hero!â the governor exclaimed and enjoyed the relief that he always felt when he uttered a curse.
"Well now â¦,â he said a few seconds later, as he came across the words
happy day
. âLetâs see what made our two dickey birds so happy."
Oh, happy day! Day of surprises. And of luck
.
I could easily believe in divine intervention. Canât be a coincidence that the magical elements
magnés
and
phone,
which make up the original word for the machine, seem to come from ancient times
.
What has brought magic to this day, and to our forthcoming pilgrimage, and to our whole enterprise, is the word made up
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