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ALEXANDER KARANIKAS PASSED AWAY |
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December 3, 2006
Dear Alex,
Moments ago, on this wintry morning, I received word from Marianthe that you have already left us and I wept, not for you, but for my own bereavement.
Your passing marks a turning point in my own life and is cause for reflection. Why, Alex, must the good things of life vanish? Why should the clear blue river that chimes in its flowing under our eyes cease to flow some day? Why should the winds that are blowing over the sunny sky cease to blow? Will the clouds cease to fleet too? Must all things die? Will the voice of the bird no more be heard in the forest?
I will miss you, Alex. I will be in PANERA wishing for you to show up for lunch and talk and you will never come. I will knock on your house door and you will never answer it. Reading your gifted poetry I will want to call you to share my comments with you, and you will not answer the phone. Why should you and I never again talk about The Women of Zalongo (one of your beloved historical themes) and the pictures of the monument I sent you from Greece this past summer? Why should you and I not have more time together to comment on our childhoods (which you found to be very similar, though you were raised in New Hampshire and I in Arcadia) and reflect on the absurdity of the human condition?
Alex, my precious friend and mentor, my heart is so filled with mourning that my mind cannot think clearly and my hand cannot steady itself enough to write. Yes, all things must die and spring will come never more. Farewell, noble soul and untiring laborer in the vineyards of Hellenism, and thanks for the memories.
Farewell my good friend,
Nikos
P.S. Here is a poem from one of our favorite masters, Santayana. It seems as if Jorge knew something long time ago.
In Memoriam
With you a part of me hath passed away;
For in the peopled forest of my mind,
A tree made leafless by this wintry wind
Shall never don again its green array.
Chapel and fireside, country road and bay,
Have something of their friendliness resigned;
Another, if I would, I could not find,
And I am grown much older in a day.
But yet I treasure in my memory
Your gift of charity, and young heart's ease,
And the dear honor of your amity;
For these once mine, my life is rich with these.
And I scarce know which part may greater be -
What I keep of you, or you rob from me.
George Santayana
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