Moto


"I write because by writing i find beauty.
To speak about terror or human cruelty is
to seek a way for beauty and justice.
To write is to go against.
All my novels, historical or not, are the way:
From the soul to the soul."

Sunday, 13 April 2014

WITH THE STORM LAMP

 
 
 


About
A simple everyday man finds himself against the experience of a supernatural event. He isolates himself on an island, trying to figure out the signs sent to him by the world beyond. There, he will lead a debauched life, but also experience profound love. A story of desolation and the search for self-identity in modern society.

"From afar he saw the old, grass-covered threshing-floor, bathed in the moonlight and on the crystal-clear waters the glow of a strange, as if creeping, light, the dim brilliance of an imprisoned soul.

He approached closer to see more clearly. It was a quivering, struggling shadow of blue and bleached violet color, a lost soul seeking the coolness of the spring; the black dog ran up, frantic, and stood in front of him sinking its gaze indelibly into his own, and began to bark.
He shuddered.
He new that it was not time, but the moment, that threatened him, this supernatural shining moment, that palpitated like a drop of crystal-clear water, that encompassed the entire mystery.
He glanced at his water; it was midnight.
He fell upon the cliff of the god gasping. He was terrified and at the same time entranced.
Once more, he noticed that this fear was strangely pleasurable, and now he was convinced that he would go again and again, until he became certain, he learned; He had sought the key to the secrets the world fides, truths seen from their other side, the invisible one. He was there now, at the point of all points, at the heart of the mystery – he was the keeper of the keys."

Pages 65-66
"One by one the secrets of his life sent him their sign, he had only to unravel the mystery of the dead soul that wandered round the ancient threshing floor, perhaps tonight it would give him a sign, if it is not a hallucination, he reflected, as soon as night fell he looked for the storm-lamp but could find it nowhere; he took with him matches and a candle and set off. He had figured on being there near midnight because he knew now that was a sensitive hour that made the earthly space more conquerable, more fragile, so that the equilibrium of silence vibrated, creating invisible fissures in the other space of mystery.
He stood on the hill with the live oaks and saw the valley spread out, calm; the moon, rising red like blood and moist, lent a supernatural glow to the landscape, made it throb and ring, or so it seemed to him. Tonight was the night of the sign and he would not leave that spot without knowing".

Pages 91-92
He lit a cigarette and stood bihind the dull glass. He resded his gaze, as when he was a child, and looked at the landscape shrouded in fog. What he was seeing appeared to him a mere fraction of the reality it concealed; what was not visible contained the greater part of truth, and he remembered the word of Elia, "souls are like the other "souls", the chrysalids... if they burst, no sound is heard.
Suddenly he felt as if he was created for only one summer, and he was trapped behind the glass watching the season not meant for him.
He shuddered. This thought gave him a reference to what he was seeing there, on the threshing floor, beyond his terrestrial senses, and he felt for the first time that he was the itermediary in the enigma that flutters between God and the world.
With the storm-lamp in hand he set off; it was the first time he felt so calm, almost joyful; he, too, was an enchanted one and there was nothing more powerful than the emotions he derived from all these experiences of his.
From afar he saw two huge motionless eyes that shone in the moist darkness.
The black dog was there, awaiting him.








Pages 185 - 186  WITH THE STORM LAMP

Avra's body shone and he wondered. It was as if that glow of death flowed over her, a corpse white like an infant's and clean, with the wounds healed and the breasts brimming with milk that flowed sweetly redolent.

He bent over and placed his lips on her nipple, and she shuddered.

Her milk had the same aroma as anise and tree-bark in the rain and juices of milky flowers, and it was sweet, and the tears flowed from his eyes.

All night he held her in his arms. The blood of their child had united them, the child that departed so naked, so alone to the upper world, and he thought "Fortunately, I was in time to see it, fortunately..." not even knowing why that was so omportant, but needing it - it was his sign, the spring water dyed with his blood, that the child took with him and had now to search for in the other world.

Pages 210 - 211
In the deseted wintly landscape where only the young seagulls flew frightened and the waves rippled amourousaly, kissing the feet of the god, Samuel felt to the depths of his being the heart-bear of the invisible world, the miracle and the mystery in all its godly splendor. And he fell upon the moist sand, as he did once on the dirty floor of his cell, after the rebellion of the convicts  - he fell there, feet and hands outstretched in the shape of the cross, he was a living cross, yes, that bore from the abysses of time  the miracles of myth and the unfathomable mystery, the one which brought him, asleep or awake, to the source of the other truth.

Thalassinos arrived with the wagon and the blanket, and in a short time the beautiful magnificent god was in the hall of the little house, next to the cupboard where the silver box was concealed.