Re: Mikri Thalassa by Betty Beath
Lovely! Having just returned from Crete, on whose harbors Kalymnian sponge-divers often sell their harvest, I found this "song without words" profoundly moving. Deeply scarred by the relentless, briny breeze of the pelago, scorched to a chestnut-hued, swarthy, leathery complexion by a merciless, inexorable sun— doubly so as it reflects back upwards from the crystalline waters— and embodying that stony, engraved stoicism welded together by abject poverty and silent dignity, those men are the Ur-Hellenes since time immemorial. Singing their song is as sweet as it is noble, and Maestra Beath has sung it both warmly and eloquently.
Three cheers to composer and performers!
Victor
It is not man that lives but his work. (Ioannis Kapodistrias)
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