/lit/ - Literature

>>9624747
>Helen of Egypt
>cover is a late-Etruscan period painting from tomb of Orcus, itself based on Praxitelean type
Why though?

Breaking the shafts from his shoulder, the Danaan casts them into the water and the dear soldier is gone. His arm his new. His legs are steady. The ship’s rigging is trailing in the wind and slinging it hand-over-hand the Danaan finds the deck and surveys the shorehead. From where he stands alone on the prow, he can see a hundred torches burning amongst the ranks of men. The torch-carriers make for the ships. He works a spear ten strides long through the chest of one of them from his position over the beak and then another and a third, making red mud of them in the surf.
βάναυσοι (an,08), he cries, fire fire fire!
The long-spear is heavy but the Danaan is strong and twelve Troians are opened by him at the shoulder and through the belly and one split between the ribs and one through the back of the neck as he stumbles so the spear point passes his lips and he falls in the tide, dead even before the spit can be torn free from behind his jaw and the last thing he knows is the foam of the surf and the bitter shock of teeth clenched on bronze (an,09). Overhead the sun is tracking backward across the cloudless sky.
Behind, two hands red and fissured and running with water wrap their crooked fingers over the banister and the rotten face of the first of the dead is hoisted up into view. Sleep and death slide over the roughshod rail quiet like folds of linen falling from a woman's shoulder and and crumple into a heap on deck. The dead man retches up another wash of clean water and wipes their mouth with the back of one hand. His ears are leaking.
No, he says, making a dismissive wave of one hand.
No, no. Stand under the mainmast here--back a hand. On center. Like you’re a God and this is your home.
It’s no home for a God, there’s a column in the middle of the naos--
That’s why it’s like a God, not a God.
Like is good.
The mud around his mouth cracks in tall lines when they speak. His voice is dry and quiet, the whisper of the Danaan's father on his deathbed. His nose begins to drain once he's found his feet like a cup of wine turned over and poured out and they speak in tandem like twins.
If you stay on the prow, great lion, they will see you fall. And that's good. But it could be better, don't you agree?
That's right, that's right. Under the mainmast
Under the flaxen sail
Under that beautiful standard there
Let the Troians fall in a circle around you
Like the horizon
Like the sun
Like a shield
As wide as your spear is long
What a sight
And here you'll be found
Under the mainmast
Under the mainmast
What a pyre--Αἴας was given a warship
Twelve more dead in a ring
A sacrifice fit for a king
A warship!
Or a lover (an,10)
They won't see you fall
They'll see you felled
Oh, Διὸς the fire in their eyes
And in their hearts
The molten silver on their tongues

--
>>9603821
Your pic is well written. If yours, good stuff anon. Personally, I am not a fan of the author posing rhetorical questions to the reader--comes off a tad trite.

>>9450945
>who is Julius Evola
>what are all these hot memes I didn't catch on my /lit/

LURK FAGGOT