- Date added
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Oct. 2, 2022, 9:19 a.m.
- Description
- Aristophanes looks the torchlit Narcissus up and down. Around his brow sits a garland of white anemones and violet hyacinths. There is the infamous trailing cloak, Tyrian purple embroidered with gold thread, its hem submerged in the muddy puddle where—just this evening—the hens had been pecking for worms. Aristophanes could weep for joy. “You look perfectly all right to me.”
The languid Ganymede sways towards him; then, finding himself bereft of anything on which to lean, retreats to the gatepost. “By Athena, I’ve been called a mincing sissy.”
He is barely older than Aristophanes, a few years at most. Not as tall, too, as he can appear when discoursing before the Boulé or gliding through the agora with a quail up his sleeve. Aristophanes says, “Aren’t you?”
