Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Aphrodite by Pierre Louÿs (hot novels to read .txt) 📖
- Author: Pierre Louÿs
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“Where shall we put her?” asked Myrto.
“Near the god.”
“Where is the statue? I have never entered here. I was afraid of the tombs and of the steles. I do not know the Hermanubis.”
“It must be in the center of the little garden. Let us seek it. I came here once when I was a child, while pursuing a lost gazelle. Let us start through the avenue of the white sycamores. We cannot fail to discover it.”
They came to it, in fact.
The violet tints of the first dawn mingled with the moonlight on the marbles. Vague and distant harmony floated among the cypress branches. The rhythmic rustle of the palms, so like to drops of falling rain, shed an illusion of coolness.
Timon opened with effort a pink stone buried in the earth. The sepulcher was hollowed out beneath the hands of the funerary god who made the gesture of the embalmer. It must have contained a cadaver, formerly, but nothing more was found in the cavity save a heap of brownish dust.
The young man descended waist-deep and held out his arms: “Give her to me,” he said to Myrto. “I will lay her well within and we will close the tomb…”
But Rhodis threw herself upon the body.
“No! do not bury her so quickly! I want to see her again! A last time! A last time! Chrysis! my poor Chrysis! Ah! horror… What has she become!…”
Myrtocleia had put aside the covering rolled about the dead and the face had appeared, so rapidly altered that the two young girls recoiled. The cheeks had taken on a square shape, the eyelids and the lips were swollen like six white cushions. Already nothing remained of the more than human beauty. They closed the thick shroud. But slipped her hand under the stuff to place the obolos destined for Charon in Chrysis’s fingers.
Then both, shaken by interminable sobs, placed the relaxed, inert body in Timon’s arms.
And when Chrysis was placed in the depths of the sandy tomb, Timon reopened the winding sheet. He secured the silver obolos in the relaxed fingers, he supported the head with a flat stone; over the body, from the forehead to the knees, he spread the long mass of shadowy golden hair.
Then he came forth from the pit, and the musicians, kneeling before the gaping opening, cut off each other’s young hair, bound it in a single sheaf and buried it with the dead.
TOIONDE PERAS ESKhE TO SYNTAGMA
TUN PERI KhRYSIDA KAI DEMETRION
THE END
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