The actual world had asked something of him. But he lived in the true world and had failed to answer the call.
Were it possible for us to see further than our knowledge reaches and yet a little way beyond the outworks of our divining, perhaps we would endure our sadnesses with greater confidence than our joys.
Later, in the marketplaces and harbours of the ancient world, in temples and sacred groves, in Athens and Sicily, in Megara and Italy, they would whisper the stories to each other.
It was the morning of 6th July, 2012. I was hungover but happy. I had no smartphone in those days so, happily unaware of the tyranny of Google Maps, I strolled aimlessly along Parisian boulevards, going where whim and fancy took me. To my left, I saw a small street,
He was the son of a stonemason and a midwife. Neither rich nor poor, neither aristocratic nor a peasant … every year, thousands of boys like him were born to thousands of parents in Athens, and every single one of them would live their ordinary lives and die their ordinary deaths,