ABSTRACT
Before the ridge of Serifos, as the sun rises, the guns of all the great world theories fall silent. The mind is overcome by a few waves and some rocks; absurd perhaps but nevertheless sufficient to reveal man in his true dimensions. If he likes starting out in the wrong way, it is because he refuses to listen. In his absence, for thousands of years now, the Aegean has been saying again and again in the voice of its plashing along an endless length of coast. And it is repeated by the shape of the fig leaf against the sky; it is grasped by the pomegranate that clenches its fist until it bursts; it is chanted by the cicadas until they become transparent. Death may seem more or less right, by which it mean more or less of an irreparable loss, depending on how one accept it.
