#daily classics

[simple-pretty]

officine générale pre-fall 2025 | looks (from top) 5 and 8

officine générale courtesy photos via voguerunway.com

[somepoorsod]

As night fades, we are born again, day upon day; of our previous life, nothing still remains to us; we leave the road we trod yesterday, never to return; we begin today the rest of our life. So don't tell yourself all those years are too much, old one: they're past and they mean nothing to you today.

Palladas in the Greek Anthology (10.79); my translation

νυκτὸς ἀπερχομένης γεννώμεθα ἦμαρ ἐπ᾽ ἦμαρ, τοῦ προτέρου βιότου μηδὲν ἔχοντες ἔτι, ἀλλοτριωθέντες τῆς ἐχθεσινῆς διαγωγῆς, τοῦ λοιποῦ δὲ βίου σήμερον ἀρχόμενοι. μὴ τοίνυν λέγε σαυτὸν ἐτῶν, πρεσβῦτα, περισσῶν τῶν γὰρ ἀπελθόντων σήμερον οὐ μετέχεις.

[somepoorsod]

These women with the voices of gods were raised by the Helikon and Macedonian Pieria's peak, on a diet of songs: Praxilla, Moiro, Anyte's poetry (the female Homer); Lesbian Sappho with her fair hair in beautiful tresses; Erinna, glorious Telesilla, and you, Korinna, who sang of Athene's shield when she rushed to war; Nossis with her woman's tongue, and sweet-sounding Myrtis: these are the craftswomen of everflowing verse. Nine Muses on great Olympos, and for each a woman born on Earth: to we mortals, an eternal delight.

Antipater in the Greek Anthology (9.26); my translation

τάσδε θεογλώσσους Ἑλικὼν ἔθρεψε γυναῖκας ὕμνοις, καὶ Μακεδὼν Πιερίας σκόπελος, Πρήξιλλαν, Μοιρώ, Ἀνύτης στόμα, θῆλυν Ὅμηρον, Λεσβιάδων Σαπφὼ κόσμον ἐυπλοκάμων, Ἤρινναν, Τελέσιλλαν ἀγακλέα, καὶ σέ, Κόριννα, θοῦριν Ἀθηναίης ἀσπίδα μελψαμέναν, Νοσσίδα θηλύγλωσσον, ἰδὲ γλυκυαχέα Μύρτιν, πάσας ἀενάων ἐργάτιδας σελίδων. ἐννέα μὲν Μούσας μέγας Οὐρανός, ἐννέα δ᾽ αὐτὰς γαῖα τέκεν, θνατοῖς ἄφθιτον εὐφροσύναν.

[somepoorsod]

Andromakhe still we hear lamenting; All Troy to ruins still we see falling; And Aias warring; and under the city walls Hektor bound and from the horses trailing, Through Homer's song: the bard whom not one country honours, but every land in all the world.

Alpheios in the Greek Anthology (9.97); my translation Ἀνδρομάχης ἔτι θρῆνον ἀκούομεν, εἰσέτι Τροίην δερκόμεθ᾽ ἐκ βάθρων πᾶσαν ἐρειπομένην, καὶ μόθον Αἰάντειον, ὑπὸ στεφάνῃ τε πόληος ἔκδετον ἐξ ἵππων Ἕκτορα συρόμενον, Μαιονίδεω διὰ μ οῦσαν, ὃν οὐ μία πατρὶς ἀοιδὸν κοσμεῖται, γαίης δ᾽ ἀμφοτέρης κλίματα. 

[somepoorsod]

This Praxilla in her Hymns tells of Adonis being asked by Those Below what was best of the things he had left behind when he died. He replied thus: "The best thing I left was the light of the sun; second, the shining stars and the moon's orb; and then the cucumbers and apples and pears in season."

Zenobios, Proverbs 4.21; my translation

αὕτη ἡ Πράξιλλα τὸν Ἄδωνιν ἐν τοῖς Ὕμνοις εἰσάγει ἐρωτώμενον ὑπὸ τῶν κάτω τί κάλλιστον καταλιπὼν ἐλήλυθεν, ἐκεῖνον δὲ λέγοντα οὕτως·

κάλλιστον μὲν ἐγὼ λείπω φάος ἠελίοιο, δεύτερον ἄστρα φαεινὰ σεληναίης τε πρόσυπον ἠδὲ καὶ ὡραίους σικύους καὶ μῆλα καὶ ὄγχνας.

[somepoorsod]

The Epigram That Doesn't Want You To Read It

(I love this satire of the usual, chatty, pseudo-epigrams of the Alexandrian poets).

Why are you standing next to me? Why don't you let me sleep? Asking who I was, and from where, and what country I was born in? Get going, march on past my marker! I'm Menoitios, Philarkhos' son, Kretan. We don't waste words where I'm from.

(Poseidippos in the Milan Papyrus (fr. 102 Angiò/Cuypers/Acosta-Hughes/Kosmetatou); my translation)

τί πρὸϲ ἔμ’ ὧδ’ ἔϲτητε; τί μ’ οὐκ ἠάϲατ’ ἰαύειν, εἰρόμενοι τίϲ ἐγὼ καὶ πόθεν ἢ ποδαπόϲ; ϲτείχε‹τέ› μου παρὰ ϲῆμα· Μενοίτιόϲ εἰμι Φιλάρχω __ Κρήϲ, ὀλιγορρήμων ὡϲ ἂν ἐπὶ ξενίηϲ.

[somepoorsod]

Arsinoe, to you I dedicate this linen headband, through which the winds pass. With it, beloved, you wanted to wipe away the glistening sweat in my sweet dream, pausing in your busy work: thus you, Philadelphos, appeared to me with a sharp spear in one hand, my mistress, and holding a hollow shield in your left. You asked me for this white band; I, the maiden Hegeso of the Makedonians, give it.

Poseidippos  in the Milan Papyrus (fr. 36 Angiò/Cuypers/Acosta-Hughes/Kosmetatou); my translation)

Ἀρϲινόη, ϲοὶ τοῦτο διὰ ϲτολίδων ἀνεμοῦϲθαι βύϲϲινον ἄγκειται βρέγμ’ ἀπὸ Ναυκράτιοϲ, ὧι ϲύ, φίλη, κατ’ ὄνειρον ὀμόρξαϲθαι γλυκὺν ἱδρῶ ἤθελεϲ, ὀτρηρῶν παυϲαμένη καμάτων· ὣϲ ἐφάνη‹ϲ›, Φιλάδελφε, καὶ ἐν χερὶ δούρατοϲ αἰχμήν, πότνα, καὶ ἐν πήχει κοῖλον ἔχουϲα ϲάκοϲ· ἡ δὲ ϲοὶ αἰτηθεῖϲα τὸ λευ‹χ›έανον κανόνιϲμα __ παρθένοϲ Ἡγηϲὼ θῆκε γένοϲ Μακέ̣[τη

[somepoorsod]

As soon as he took the mortal blow, he immediately filled his hand with his own lifeblood, and hurled it into the air, and said, "You've won, Galilean."

Alleged final words of Julian the Apostate, the last pagan emperor (Theodoret, Church History 3.20); my translation

Δεξάμενον τὴν πληγὴν, εὐθὺς πλῆσαι τὴν χεῖρα τοῦ αἵματος, καὶ τοῦτο ῥίψαι εἰς τὸν ἀέρα, καὶ φάναι· Νενίκηκας, Γαλιλαῖε