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[hikergraham]

πρὶν [ἐπιστολὴν] ἀναγνῶναι, κατεπλάγην εὐθύς· ἐγνώρισα γὰρ Λευκίππης τὰ γράμματα. 

Even before reading the letter, I was struck dumb; for I knew it was Leucippe’s handwriting.

Achilles Tatius, Leucippe & Clitophon 5.18.2

[hikergraham]

[hikergraham]

καὶ ἐπεὶ τάχιστα παρεγενόμεθα, διεβαδίζομεν τοὺς ὀρχάτους τῶν φυτῶν, καὶ ἐξαίφνης προσπίπτει τοῖς γόνασιν ἡμῶν γυνή, χοίνιξι παχείαις δεδεμένη, δίκελλαν κρατοῦσα, τὴν κεφαλὴν κεκαρμένη, ἐρρυπωμένη τὸ σῶμα, χιτῶνα ἀνεζωσμένη ἄθλιον πάνυ, καὶ “Ἐλέησόν με,” ἔφη, “δέσποινα, γυνὴ γυναῖκα, ἐλευθέραν μέν, ὡς ἔφυν, δούλην δὲ νῦν, ὡς δοκεῖ τῇ Τύχῃ,”

Just after we arrived, we started walking through a blooming garden. Suddenly a woman in tight shackles fell before our feet. She held a hoe. They’d buzzed her head, and her body was covered in dirt, hidden only by the simplest of garments. “Take pity on me, mistress,” she pleaded, “woman to woman. Once I was free, born that way, but I’m a slave now, as Fate saw fit.”

Achilles Tatius, Leucippe & Clitophon 5.17.3

[hikergraham]

She's my editor.

[hikergraham]

λέγω δὴ πρὸς αὐτὴν συνείς· “Ἀλλὰ σύ γε οὐδενὸς μετέχεις τῶν σαυτῆς, ἀλλ᾿ ἔοικας τοῖς ἐν γραφαῖς ἐσθίουσιν.” ἡ δέ, “Ποῖον γὰρ ὄψον,” ἔφη, “μοι πολυτελὲς ἢ ποῖος οἶνος τιμιώτερος τῆς σῆς ὄψεως;” καὶ ἅμα λέγουσα κατεφίλησέ με, προσιέμενον οὐκ ἀηδῶς τὰ φιλήματα· εἶτα διασχοῦσα, εἶπεν· “Αὕτη μοι τροφή.”

I noticed what she was up to. “You’re not eating any of your food!” I teased. “It’s like you’re a still-life, painted eating.” “No dish or wine, no matter the expense, could be worth more of my attention than looking at you.” While speaking she kissed me, and I received her kisses. They weren’t unpleasurable. Then, parting, she said, “You’re my snack.”

Achilles Tatius, Leucippe & Clitophon 5.13.5

[hikergraham]

Olga Oleg photographed by Art Vernan, Saint Petersburg, 2018.

[hikergraham]

οὐδὲν γὰρ ἡδὺ τοῖς ἐρῶσι πλὴν τὸ ἐρώμενον· τὴν γὰρ ψυχὴν πᾶσαν ὁ ἔρως καταλαβών, οὐδὲ αὐτῇ χώραν δίδωσι τῇ τροφῇ. 

To lovers, nothing but love is sweet. Eros overtakes the whole of their souls and leaves no space, even for food.

Achilles Tatius, Leucippe & Clitophon 5.13.3

[hikergraham]

helena.moore

[hikergraham]

καὶ ὁ Σάτυρος, “Ἀλλ᾿ ἔστι σοι,” ἔφη, “καὶ τὰ παρόντα θέσθαι καλῶς καὶ ἐλεῆσαι ψυχὴν ἐπὶ σοὶ φλεγομένην. ... ἡ γὰρ Ἀφροδίτη μέγα τούτῳ παρέσχεν ἀγαθόν. ... γυναῖκα γὰρ ἐξέμηνεν ἐπ᾿ αὐτὸν πάνυ καλήν, ὥστε ἂν ἰδὼν αὐτὴν εἴποις ἄγαλμα... βούλεται δὲ τοῦτον ἔχειν δεσπότην· οὐ γὰρ ἄνδρα ἐρῶ· καὶ δίδωσιν ἑαυτὴν καὶ πᾶσαν...”

“He has an opportunity,” said Satyros. “He can have the life he’s after while also caring for a woman whose soul burns for him. Aphrodite has done him a great favour. She’s lit a love for him in a woman so striking that upon seeing her you’d think her a statue. She wants him for, I won’t say a husband, but a master, and she’ll give her whole self over to him...”

Achilles Tatius, Leucippe & Clitophon 5.11.4-6

[hikergraham]

caravaggio’s hands in various paintings 🌙

[hikergraham]

[hikergraham]

ἐγὼ δὲ ὡς εἶδον φερομένην μοι τὴν φιλτάτην, οὐκ ἐνεγκὼν ἵεμαι διὰ τῶν ξιφῶν· καί με παίει τις κατὰ τοῦ μηροῦ μαχαίρᾳ καὶ ὤκλασα· ἐγὼ μὲν δὴ καταπεσὼν ἐρρεόμην αἵματι· οἱ δὲ ἐνθέμενοι τῷ σκάφει τὴν κόρην ἔφευγον.

I watched as my dearest was taken from me. I couldn’t bear it. I charged against the kidnappers’ swords, but one of them cut through my thigh with a machete. I collapsed, falling to the floor in a flood of blood, while they loaded my girl onto a skiff and fled.

Achilles Tatius, Leucippe & Clitophon 5.7.2

[hikergraham]

[hikergraham]

[hikergraham]

Ὁ γὰρ Χαιρέας πρὸ πολλοῦ τῆς Λευκίππης ἐλάνθανεν ἐρῶν.

Chaireas' love for Leucippe had escaped notice for a long time.

Achilles Tatius, Leucippe & Clitophon 5.3.1

[hikergraham]

[hikergraham]

My rib’s broken. The x-ray says so. It’s a hairline fracture—“A slip-up in the bathtub.”—a thin lie told to an incurious doctor.

I take her to the longest pier in Canada, where we look out at the water, then the horizon: faded blue islands, mountains, a boat or two. She won’t smile in my pictures. A man asks for a photo. A couple asks for a photo. A couple asks if our food’s good. We blame the attention on my energy, but it’s her, really. I must be something incredible if I get to sit across from her and eat, sit beside her and read aloud. I must be something like comfort or safety or growth. I must be something.

She’s said she wants a mentor. She’s said we’re a shaky pair—a pair!—and have the same shaky hands. I’m an expert shaker. I know everything from nervous twitches to seismic body shifts. These aren’t the things I want to teach her. I want to show her how not to be so small. How to be knowledge. How to be surety. How to read Greek and Latin and Portuguese. How to tie a square knot. How to be a community, to surround herself with love, respect, and need. How to carry the attending pains with an open heart. How to carry an open heart.

I carried her to the bed from the bathtub. Her voice was absent, her shirt see-through soaked. Her eyes were vacant and brown.

“Brown!” The toddler’s talking about his play-doh. “Brown’s such a nice word, isn’t it?” says his father.

She says her eyes are dark brown pits, and her sister’s still ripening hazel. She says I don’t know colours: not vermillion or saffron or mauve. She says I don’t know directions. She loves latching onto these errors of mine, prying at them like they’re her loosening manicure, coming apart at the cuticle. “You hate this, don’t you?” I don’t. I love how she makes me squirm. I love how she weaves her fingers between mine when I drive her home at night, how she fumbles her phone in her off-hand and picks out the saddest songs she’s ever heard. We love her taste. And double-entendres.  

She says I’m Shakespeare’s bear, pursuing her offstage. I can’t say she’s Ophelia. She says we should go to her place. “My bath’s cleaner than yours.” She’s funny, but I won’t laugh for her in these moments. In dreams I’ve seen her slip into baths and buckets and rivers, slip away into pits under the water, her eyes vacant and brown. She says she doesn’t want to slip into something just because it’s easy. Nothing about this has been easy.

I’ve seen her swim, too—and sail. These weren’t dreams. She let me watch her morning routine, watch her realize herself in front of a mirror with ever smaller brushes. She let me take her socks off as she studied, as she puzzled over Lucan with a pen perched on her upper lip, her hair held tight over her upper lip. She let me see how she delights in herself. She let me feel in ways I haven’t in ten years.