Are we, out of all generations, deserving of the sky’s collapse, its axis knocked from beneath its dome? Is it on us the last age comes? A harsh destiny has brought us to this: Wretches, either we lost our sun, Or else we drove it away. In these words we seem to hear Seneca’s own voice, speaking about his own time. Thyestes is a bleak cri de coeur, the most despairing Seneca ever allowed himself to utter. For him, the benign stars of Corsica had been extinguished. His sky had become blind, black,
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