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 Vaggelis Lioudakis 





 curated by Vana Verriopoulou

From 10.10.2014 to 26.10.2014 

Opening friday  10.10.2014   19:00   







free entrance







    The Hollow Men


    by T.S. Eliot



Mistah Kurtz-he dead

            A penny for the Old Guy






    We are the hollow men

    We are the stuffed men

    Leaning together

    Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!

    Our dried voices, when

    We whisper together

    Are quiet and meaningless

    As wind in dry grass

    Or rats' feet over broken glass

    In our dry cellar


    Shape without form, shade without colour,

    Paralysed force, gesture without motion;


    Those who have crossed

    With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom

    Remember us-if at all-not as lost

    Violent souls, but only

    As the hollow men

    The stuffed men.





    Eyes I dare not meet in dreams

    In death's dream kingdom

    These do not appear:

    There, the eyes are

    Sunlight on a broken column

    There, is a tree swinging

    And voices are

    In the wind's singing

    More distant and more solemn

    Than a fading star.


    Let me be no nearer

    In death's dream kingdom

    Let me also wear

    Such deliberate disguises

    Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves

    In a field

    Behaving as the wind behaves

    No nearer-


    Not that final meeting

    In the twilight kingdom





    This is the dead land

    This is cactus land

    Here the stone images

    Are raised, here they receive

    The supplication of a dead man's hand

    Under the twinkle of a fading star.


    Is it like this

    In death's other kingdom

    Waking alone

    At the hour when we are

    Trembling with tenderness

    Lips that would kiss

    Form prayers to broken stone.





    The eyes are not here

    There are no eyes here

    In this valley of dying stars

    In this hollow valley

    This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms


    In this last of meeting places

    We grope together

    And avoid speech

    Gathered on this beach of the tumid river


    Sightless, unless

    The eyes reappear

    As the perpetual star

    Multifoliate rose

    Of death's twilight kingdom

    The hope only

    Of empty men.





    Here we go round the prickly pear

    Prickly pear prickly pear

    Here we go round the prickly pear

    At five o'clock in the morning.


    Between the idea

    And the reality

    Between the motion

    And the act

    Falls the Shadow

                      For Thine is the Kingdom


    Between the conception

    And the creation

    Between the emotion

    And the response

    Falls the Shadow

                      Life is very long


    Between the desire

    And the spasm

    Between the potency

    And the existence

    Between the essence

    And the descent

    Falls the Shadow

                      For Thine is the Kingdom


    For Thine is

    Life is

    For Thine is the


    This is the way the world ends

    This is the way the world ends

    This is the way the world ends

    Not with a bang but a whimper.











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