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Roman Vishniac. Untitled, Poland, 1935-1938.
welcoming spring
Head of Apollo found on the Basilica di S. Stefano/Villa degli Anicii site, Rome.
via @/anticaeviae

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George Katsimbalis, George Seferis and Patrick Leigh Fermor in Athens, 1951.
(Source: greeknewsagenda.gr) George Seferis was born on this day in 1900.
Trivial things light fuses in the memory.
- Patrick Leigh Fermor
Patrick Leigh Fermor, El árbol del viajero: un viaje por las Antillas, 1942. https://www.instagram.com/p/CWRN6eCtPa5/?utm_medium=tumblr
John Craxton (left) and Patrick Leigh Fermor (right), Serifos, Greece, (1951)
John Craxton lived for pleasure and painted it too. Born in October 1922, this heroic hedonist was gladly gay and thus a criminal in Britain until his 45th year. Nomadic and anarchic, he blithely ignored the rules by escaping into his own private world from the start. The patron Peter Watson set up John Craxton and Lucian Freud in adjoining studios – priming the co-conspirators to work on their inventive and subversive art without hindrance and then to explode in rampages through blitzed London and beyond. Meeting when aged 19, they would be best friends through their twenties. For all their intimacy, John felt he was being tested sexually and feared emotional blackmail. So there was probably no Freudian slip when Lucian said, amid their bitter estrangement several decades later: “I never knew Johnny was queer. Not for ages.”
Ever since I could remember, my boredom threshold had been so high that it scarcely existed at all. With the exception of a minute handful of physical and mental types, surroundings and landscapes and atmospheres and orders of conversation, I was unboreable, like an unsinkable battleship … My trouble was that practically everything, not only the most disparate, contradictory and mutually exclusive things and people, but many others that everyone else found repellent, painful, unrewarding, and above all tedious, filled me with the same wild fascination.
- Sir Patrick Leigh Fermor DSO, The Broken Road
Paddy Leigh Fermor was the master of a lush and vivid literary idiom that managed to be simultaneously poetic, learned, philosophical, and mundane, a unique writing style his friend, fellow expatriate, and fellow-philhellene Lawrence Durrell called a “truffled style and dense plumage.”
Partly because so much of The Broken Road is taken directly from Paddy Leigh Fermor’s contemporary diaries and notes, it may well be the most revealing volume of his many writings, and perhaps the most personal. It is certainly the most introspective. His other travelling tomes are rollicking and detailed, and the pace hardly lets up. In The Broken Road Leigh Fermor slows down occasionally to reflect, and his meditations on himself are quite revealing, because they are honest and straightforward and unfiltered by expectations or excessive editing.

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THE TRAVEL
Sir Patrick Leigh Fermor in Itaca
‘…the feeling of being lost in time and geography with months and years hazily sparkling ahead in a prospect of inconjecturable magic…’
Patrick Leigh Fermor ..
And this is Leigh Fermor’s writing desk at his house in Kardamyli, Greece.
On the coast of Terra Fermoor, when the wind is on the lea, And the paddy-fields are sprouting round a morning cup of tea, Sits a lovely girl a-dreaming, and she never thinks of me. No, she never thinks of me At her morning cup of tea, Lovely girl with moon-struck eyes, Juno fallen from the skies, At the paddy-fields she looks Musing on Tibetan books, On the Coast of Terra Fermoor high above the Cretan Sea.
Melting rainbows dance around her – what a tale she has to tell, How Carmichael, the Archangel, caught her in the asphodel, And coquetting choirs of Cherubs loudly sang the first Joel, Loudly sang the first Joel To their Blessed Damozel. Ah, she’s doomed to wane and wilt Underneath her load of guilt; She will never, never say What the Cherubs sang that day, When the Wise Men came to greet her and a star from heaven fell.
Ah, her memory is troubled by a stirring of dead bones, Bodies that a poisoned poppy froze into a heap of stones; When the midnight voices call her, how she mews and mopes and moans. Oh the stirring of the bones And their rumble-tumble tones, How they rattle in her ears Over the exhausted years; Lovely bones she used to know Where the tall pink pansies blow And her heart is sad because she never saw the risen Jones.
Cruel gods will tease and taunt her: she must always ask for more, Have her battlecock and beat it, slam the open shuttledore, Till the Rayners17 cease from reigning in the stews of Singapore. She will always ask for more, Waiting for her Minotaur; Peering through the murky maze For the sudden stroke that slays, Till some spirit made of fire Burns her up in his desire And her sighs and smiles go floating skyward to the starry shore.
- Maurice Bowra, On the Coast of Terra Fermoor (10 June 1950)
The controversial Oxford scholar, poet, wit and acquaintance of Patrick and Joan Leigh Fermor, Sir Cecil Maurice Bowra, wrote two poems (in 1950) that poked fun at Paddy’s relationships with Balasha Cantacuzene - his first great love - and Joan Leigh Fermor - his life long lover and eventual wife.
The poems remained hidden from public view until Henry Hardy (also know as Robert Dugdale) published Maurice Bowra’s scabrous satires on his contemporaries, New Bats in Old Belfries, in 2005, as one of Bowra’s literary executors. At the time Hardy had to leave blank spaces where two of them should have appeared. This was because their subject, Patrick Leigh Fermor, was still alive, and was unwilling to give his approval for their inclusion in his lifetime - Paddy died in June 2011, aged 96. One can only speculate why Bowra, who had a decent friendship with Fermor, would want to target Paddy Fermor in this way. Fermor after all was a celebrated writer, traveller - and Cretan war hero as a result of his activities while serving in the Special Operations Executive during the second world war.
In an extended correspondence with Hardy in his capacity as one of the editors of Bowra’s poems, PLF showed that he was much put out by the ones on himself, especially ‘The Wounded Gigolo’, which he felt was ‘a bit cracked’. He vacillated about the other poem, ‘On the Coast of Terra Fermoor’ (why did Bowra misspell ‘Fermor’?), but in the end voted against, no doubt partly influenced by the opinion of his late wife, Joan, who ‘thought that all the people mentioned in the collection would have been cut to the quick, however much they put on non-spoilsport faces.’ When James Morwood of Wadham visited him later in his Greek home to ask about his friendship with Maurice Bowra (on behalf of Leslie Mitchell, Bowra’s biographer), he found that the hurt of reading the poems was still smarting. Paddy Fermor would write to Henry Hardy to say: ‘Could Maurice’s shade ponder all this now, I think I might emerge as more of a saviour than a spoilsport.’ Paddy would express how deeply wounded he was by Bowra in his correspondence with the Duchess of Devonshire.
In April 2022, I visited the home of Patrick and Joan Leigh Fermor in Kadarmyli in the Peloponnese as part of hiking and mountaineering sojourn around Greece with friends. Afterwards, back in London, I was having a family dinner which included some of my grandparents’ circle of friends in which they recalled Lord Noel Annan (he died back in 2000), the great doyenne of British academia and chronicler of his age, that Maurice Bowra was madly in love with Joan Leigh Fermor - which went unrequited.
Czytaj dalej
Patrick Leigh Fermor
These summer nights are short. Going to bed before midnight is unthinkable and talk, wine, moonlight and the warm air are often in league to defer it one, two or three hours more. It seems only a moment after falling asleep out of doors that dawn touches one gently on the shoulder, and, completely refreshed, up one gets, or creeps into the shade or indoors for another luxurious couple of hours. The afternoon is the time for real sleep: into the abyss one goes to emerge when the colours begin to revive and the world to breathe again about five o'clock, ready once more for the rigours and pleasures of late afternoon, the evening, and the night
Patrick Leigh Fermor, Mani

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Marius Goring as Major General Kreipe, Dirk Bogarde as Major Patrick Leigh Fermor and David Oxley as Captain Bill Stanley Moss in Ill Met by Moonlight (1957). Written, produced and directed by Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger.
mariusgoring.com
“[Poetry] is a field where England can take on all challengers.”
Patrick Leigh Fermor, pictured with Dirk Bogarde