Crito Closing the Eyes of the Dead Socrates by Antonio Canova
1787-92
"It was not my soul that would set out on a journey, as the real Socrates had imagined; it was my body that would embark on endless wanderings, never to be ousted from the universe, and so it would take part in the most fantastic metamorphoses, about which it would tell me nothing because it would long since have forgotten all about me. At one time the matter it had consisted of had housed a soul that resembled me, but now my matter would have other duties. And I? I had to turn around, I had to let go of the ship's rail, to let go of everything, to look at you. You beckoned; it was not difficult to follow. You had taught me something about infinity, about how an immeasurable space of memories can be stored in the minute time span, and while I was permitted to remain as small and coincidental as I was, you had shown me my true stature. You needn't beckon me any longer, I'm coming. None of the others will hear my story, none of them will see that the woman sitting there waiting for me has the features of my dearest Crito, the girl who was my pupil, so young that one could speak about immortality with her. And then I told her, then I told you
the following story"
No comments:
Post a Comment