holds a tattered manuscript.
Mytilene, Lesbos
| S |
uddenly, he stood in front of me, in my library, dressed in black, beard soiled, deep wrinkles underneath his eyes.
“Alcaeus, I didn’t hear you and Thasos.”
“Exekias let us in. Are you working?”
“No...sit down.”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
He leaned on Thasos: I felt that he hadn’t been sober very long; he leaned forward, almost stumbling.