Monday, 20 February 2017

Kostas Karyotakis: impressions of a drowning man



Thanks to Hermes for drawing my attention to the recent ERT series on the poet Kostas Karyotakis, one of the most troubling figures in modern Greek literature, who committed suicide in 1928, aged 32.

I watched the first episode of Karyotakis earlier and it was very good. Watch all six episodes (in Greek) here. Above is the opening sequence from episode one (with my English subtitles), in which Karyotakis tries to drown himself, fails, then succeeds in taking his life using a revolver. In between suicide attempts, Karyotakis wrote this suicide note:

It is time for me to reveal my tragedy. My greatest faults were unbridled curiosity, a diseased imagination, and my attempts to become acquainted with every emotion without being able to feel most of them. However, I despise the base act that is attributed to me. I experienced but the ideation of its atmosphere, the ultimate bitterness. Nor am I the suitable person for that profession. My entire past will show that much. Every reality to me was repulsive.

I felt the rush brought on by danger. And with glad heart I shall accept the coming danger.


P.S. And, to change the tone: I advise those who can swim never to try to commit suicide in the sea. All night and for ten hours I was battered by the waves. I drank much water but, by and again and without me knowing how, my mouth would surface. Perhaps some time, given the opportunity, I shall write down the impressions of a drowning man.


Karyotakis' last poem, written a month before his death, was Preveza.

Preveza
Death is the crows clattering

on dark walls and roof-tiles;

death – those women who make love

as if they were peeling onions.



Death these grimy, insignificant streets

with their great, illustrious names,

the olive grove, in all directions the sea,
and even the sun – death amid deaths.



Death – that cop who wraps up

an 'Insufficient' serving and weighs it;

death – these hyacinths on the balcony

and that teacher with the newspaper.



Base, Garrison, Platoon of Preveza.

On Sunday we'll hear the band.

I got a savings book from the bank,
first deposit – thirty drachmas.



Walking slowly on the wharf you say,

'Do I exist' and then, 'You do not exist!'

The ship arrives, Raised flag.

Perhaps His Honor the Governor is coming.

If, among these people, just

one would die from disgust…
Silent, sad, decorous,

we'd all have fun at the funeral.