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Οἶδα - λόγος - μύω - μύθος ... and the sense of the study of Greek and Latin

Οἶδα ( oida ) is a greek word. It's the perfect present for a rebuilt * εἲδω (* Eido). The root of the Indo-European * wid οἶδα is giving rise to the lexical field of Latin "video", which derives from one of our "seeing" . When I studied at school
verb polythematic ὁράω (Orao) = I learned that the shape of a perfect οἶδα I mean is "I saw" that "I know". As I write I'm thinking about what, in my opinion, is the sense of studying the languages \u200b\u200bof the classical world. As pointed out to me with my dearest friend, the Greek and Latin I do not care to show off amazing quotes for the listener, and indeed, when the scholar-in-office adorned with his talk of Latin quotations seem to me to see me appear from before the poor Renzo whispers but

who wants it to do its Latinorum?

No, that's why I studied Latin and Greek to me! Moreover
I went to high school when the school Gentile was in fact now in crisis, at a time when the sound library, where he was sure to learn the universal knowledge, was already falling apart, giving way to a teaching - learning fragments more or less shiny and precious. Yet the sign
of those languages \u200b\u200bis my way of being, and searching. Οἶδα "I see and know" . And here is the crux. In the sense of the root * wid that, among other things, also gives rise to word "idea" and all its derivatives. I "I see and know" . It is in the eye the principle of know.
So I got a jolt when I read of the discovery of the important role that assume the mirror neurons in the processes of knowledge. The eyes as a mirror. Mirroring the world's eye empathy. It is a way of knowing immediately. The surrounding world gets in my eyes and I recognize in myself. Then begins the tragic of human destiny: " express", "issue" this knowledge of the lightning glance. There is another word in the Greek language, (known this in its dual meaning): λόγος ( logos) = "thought" and "word" . The tragic fate is in this passage from the blazing light οἶδα "I see and know" the process of λόγος = "thought" and "word" in Latin ratio and pray, according to the translation of Cicero (De Speaker, I, 50). The ratio implies an order almost a conscious distilled of mind which must include oratio-duce what has been seen and known simultaneously. Now, in the sense that for me the knowledge of classical languages, I comes to mind another word that means "see", μύω = "Seeing with the eyes closed," from which derives the word " mystery with all its lexical field. For some time I wonder if I can log in to μύω also μύθος (mythos) = myth, a word of obscure etymology. Μύθος meaning is akin to λόγος, but the " thought" is to "imaginatively - fantastic" and word is "fabulous . As if οἶδα "I see and know," according to the process of mirroring the world in the eye, it would result in immediate μύω = "Seeing with the eyes closed" (in I thought I pretend ), and did ποίησις ( poiesis) of μύθος (Mythos).
Well, this is the see in the dream, seeing the poet , who according to myth is blind in the light of the world of appearances, perhaps because his eyes were blinded by the light of truth once the 'has provided. But the eyes that look in her eyes that night I have owned for a while the meaning of the universe.
The poet then tap to see and know in the dark mystery that only myth can tell .
May the word my feeble whisper a glimpse of this sense!

Track And Field Panty

So, we want to respond to our surveys, AS WE KNOW AND LOVE THE CALABRIA ???????

Drajver Za Easy Grebber

The flight is the wing

Who will tell the injured seagull in flight that lands
stunned and stupid
flaps its wings
swarming on the shore of smiling indifference?

or butterfly trapped entomologist,
with the severed wing of the microscope slides?

The flight is a flight if no more land. Posting
eternal that no longer designs.

not know the flight wings.
The flight is the wing itself,
not know what else ...
... if the flight.

Snipe Sailboat Building

Sant'Angelo in Formis

professor of art history in high school where I studied was a good man. He loved his subject and is saddened to have so little time to teach.

just one hour per week!

repeated every time he entered the classroom. In truth, at that time, me and my My companions laughed succeed, because the professor ended up losing, again, at least one quarter of that one hour, to complain about the insensitivity of the Italians towards art.
How I learned to tell him that make him valuable time to so few!
Now I see clearly that face, high forehead that seemed to never end because of baldness at the front of the head, the center of which protruded the other hand, thick, shaggy, white hair in a mo 'brush. For this, you'll hardly remembered more than his real name, it named the "professor Pennellone. And besides, this nickname, which he pretended to ignore, the professor of art history was just "a brush. "
Tall and lanky, he wore the same gray suit, neat as threadbare. He knew by heart all the classical and biblical myths, and liked to tell, and taught us to "be able to see" works of art depicted on our hand, that of Carlo Argan.
In one part of my memory is preserved as a gallery of images. Some, in time, I went to look for in the original.
I traveled to the golden Mycenae to cross the Lions Gate! I thought I heard again the rumbling of wagons and the clatter of horses running in the army of Agamemnon to Troy. On a hot summer Athenian
I scanned the sequence Doric order, dazzled by the light shining on the marble Parian of the Parthenon. A
Florence, in a sweet September of my youth in the Brancacci Chapel of Carmine Church, the "professor Pennellone" seemed to tell me Expulsion of Adam and Eve from Paradise Masaccio of .

Dear Professor! you are still grateful!

I owe the memory of a Benedictine basilica, a church, in fact, a little 'Byzantine and a bit' Romanesque Sant'Angelo in Formis , in the village, on a gentle slope, not far from Capua .
Over the years, more There are times I visited. But, inevitably, every time I found the entrance blocked for different reasons. Until, when I went there last year on a Sunday in August, finally, the gate was open access to the abbey. I crossed, holding my breath.

my footsteps echo on the ancient paving lane and across a tuff collected from ancient buildings connected by an arc.
I raise my head. With the eyes of the vertical stalk sober and solid cuboid of the independent tower that rises to my right to proclaim the church that I see in passing. I turn to the left. The heart begins to smile. In front of the church with a rectangular square, paved with pebbles and irregular bordered on two sides of cypress trees towering in the blue heron in the sky, greets me in a suspended dimension. Face your back to the church without looking at her and slowly, I start at the bottom of tiny raised plaza that ends in a wall. Before me lies the plain of Capua. Eyes on the horizon plunging bathed in a celestial expanse, where, perhaps, is the sea that merges with the sky. Here, I now face. The eyes run double flight of cypresses to the church and the frame in the background, then rest on the shady porch, and tracking the warheads dell'intercolumnio music, rise upward, serene, until the apex, which resemble the basilica a hut. I climb the stairs to the front porch. I pass over the middle and higher arc within the temple.
The calm silence of light is tinged with blue and pink in the hieratic and naive image of Christ Pantocrator frescoes in the apse.
time of the sacred narrative continues, the columns and floor from Roman times to the Byzantine biblical narratives painted on the walls in delightful colors here and there, faded or erased by time in history. I'm not interested in the artistic elements.

I find myself engrossed in a magnificent simplicity.
the narrow confines of the temple of time and expand in the shadow of light.

Esco.
cross the porch.
the bottom of the square framed by cypress
reddens the sky west.
beyond the plain of Capua, in a bit ',
the sun will embrace the sea.

Can Grown Men Still Have Wet Dreams

Elegy of a witch

Women who are you?
A prisoner of the angels.
Woman why are you crying?
is the rain of April.
Woman is in your heart?
The abyss of the universe.
is my realm
the darkest night where they have access
blonde angels
threatening purity.
disheveled witches will have power
black as the night flying

free and not afraid of the fire. Finally, do not fear

White or Sleeping Beauty Sleeping Beauty.
not come knocking at my house
Hansel and Gretel fools!
Only the blind and the lame
have access to my night. In the darkness of eternal

silence the voice of the witch console them.
Sublime melody
the choirs of angels unaware.