Glorious Exploits

by Ferdia Lennon

“You think Homer knew when he’d written The Iliad that he’d written The Iliad? Do you?”

OUTSIDE. A cluster of stars to light our path. The din of the city gets fainter and fainter till you hear nothing, only waves and the crunch of our steps. We stroll arm in arm, Gelon and I, and occasionally we sway into a bush, but mostly it’s smooth going.

That’s what Gelon says. The relationship between an actor and a director is all about trust. Belief.

“Good afternoon, fair maiden,” says I, bowing like an aristo and scratching some dirt from my chiton. Alekto chuckles and shakes her head. “Still a gobshite, I see.” I say nothing to this.

“That’s why we have to do it,” Gelon says with feeling. “You’re right, they’re doomed, and in a few months, they’ll be gone.

“For all we know, those in the quarries are all that’s left of Athenian theatre, at least

“You don’t rob a man of his suffering,” says Gelon quietly. “That’s his.”

Hunger, what an odd thing it is. Is the source of all love a lacking? Is that what creates emotion? Not a presence but an absence. Do you need to be emptied to be filled?

It’s hope that makes us afraid, and I remind myself that a man should be grateful for his fears, ’cause it means he has something to lose and to win.

He says the best theatre isn’t about showing something but finding it.