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23 March 2015
Vol. V, No. 246

From Elizabeth Boleman-Herring: Today I am, for the first time in virtual format, sharing the memoir of my time with the late Philhellene author Kevin Andrews, in its entirety, including the photographs not published in the original, print edition (Greek Unorthodox: Bande à Part & A Farewell To Ikaros, 2005). I don’t know how other authors approach their own long works “already between boards,” but, once I wrote Ikaros, I could not go back and read it through again . . . till now. But a friend and fellow Philhellene, Alexander Billinis, recently contacted me asking if I would be interested in a piece he was writing on Kevin Andrews, and I realized, suddenly, that Kevin’s (and my) story had been “lost,” again. The print version is such a rara avis that readers no longer know (if they ever did know) that the book exists. So, Alexander, thank you. Kevin’s story has been suppressed and repressed enough for two lifetimes, I think, and I feel it is my continuing duty to keep it alive. So. It was a warm Greek autumn in the Cyclades, when we set out for Kythira and, re-reading the tale, I am there again. Come with me . . .

The fate of Icarus could have been no other/than to fly and to perish.

The fate of Icarus could have been no other/than to fly and to perish.

By Way of Being

“A Farewell To Ikaros: For Kevin Andrews” By Elizabeth Boleman-Herring

PETIT TRIANON Florida—(Weekly Hubris)—3/23/2015—Finally, I have opened the trunk. Small, battered, and black, made of cardboard but covered with leather made to look like snakeskin, it was once the college footlocker of an old friend from America. Something he left behind with me on one of his visits to Athens. Armored at its eight corners and bristling with latches and locks, it bears two labels. One, some 30 or 40 years old, reads, “From the Whistle Stop, Shipping Agents, Columbia SC”; the other, in my own hand: “Kevin Andrews’s unpublished novel, section of his diary, ring, bracelet, cross, scarf, other mss. Upon my death, please deliver to the Director of the Gennadeion Library, Athens, Greece.” (Read more . . .)

The vales of Greece, where Anthos whistles still.

The vales of Greece, where Anthos whistles still.

Waking Point

“Mythopoeia: Anthos & The Greening of The World” By Helen Noakes

SAN FRANCISCO California—(Weekly Hubris)—3/16/2015—At a time when the Olympian gods strode the Boeotian plain, Anthos was born. He came into the world in Orchomenos, where the River Kifisos fed the fecund valleys and reflected the sky.

The land his father tilled was a source of endless fascination for the boy. When Anthos spread seeds along the newly plowed furrows of fragrant soil, his movements were a joyous dance. And when, in that joy, he sang in praise of the gods of earth and sky, the gods listened. Feeling the heartfelt joy of the boy, the gods smiled upon his father’s land, blessing it with abundance, with sun-spun wheat and corn as green as Hera’s eyes. (Read more . . .)

My grandfather, Achileas, my grandmother Eleni, my great-grandmother, Anastasia, my great uncle, Costas (wearing glasses). Behind them, left to right: my great uncle, Nikko, my great uncle, Alexandros, his wife, Penelope, and my great uncle Vassili. The latter four were killed by Bolsheviks.

My grandfather, Achileas, my grandmother Eleni, my great-grandmother, Anastasia, my great uncle, Costas (wearing glasses). Behind them, left to right: my great uncle, Nikko, my great uncle, Alexandros, his wife, Penelope, and my great uncle Vassili. The latter four were killed by Bolsheviks.

Waking Point

“Ancestors (Chapter 1)” By Helen Noakes

SAN FRANCISCO California—(Weekly Hubris)—3/16/2014—My parents, and their parents before them, were Greek. They were Greeks of the Diaspora for four generations. Before that, the maternal side of my family had its roots in Constantinopoli (modern-day Istanbul). They were forced to watch the desecration of Aghia Sofia by the Ottoman Turks, to endure the renaming of their city, but they continued living there. It was their home. In their hearts, whatever the city was called, it was still Greek. My paternal family, from Central Macedonia, was subject to Ottoman rule as well. (Read more . . .)

Homer’s wine-dark Aegean Sea.

Homer’s wine-dark Aegean Sea.

Waking Point

“Epistrophe (Chapter 2)” By Helen Noakes

SAN FRANCISCO California—(Weekly Hubris)—3/16/2014—This journey along the varied landscape of Greecesometimes verdant, other times rocky and wildbordered by its “wine dark sea,” took me to places beyond my expectation. Everywhere I turned, the land, the sea, spoke to me of an intense persistent struggle for freedom. Greece is soaked with the blood of my forebears, with that final offering of their fierce love. (Read more . . .)

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