Pygmalion, or an artist’s love

07/31/2009 § Leave a comment

When Pygmalion entered his wife he found no mystery within. His hands,
a sculptor’s hands, could not feel the rise and fall of her ivory breasts. Bent
low and peering into the corners of her eyes, he moved not for pleasure
or closeness but in search of something formless— the earth, the ancient poise,
waiting to be chipped, cut open, and reborn of elements.

And Galatea, pierced by the awful longing in his eyes, knows now that the goddess was mistaken,
knows that she is evermore changed by his inward imagination
of the soul, the eternal sigh, the beauty
she cannot mirror.

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