It's a rumination like this that reminds me: I gotta visit more pyramids. Haven't been to one since I went to Lamanai, in your English-speaking almost-neighboring country of Belize.
Well actually that's not totally true. I read Ismail Kadare's book recently, The Pyramid. It's essential to increase your cerebral understanding of the pyramid's greater symbolism. (though I suspect Senor Ortega wouldn't be a fan of Kadare's works) And if you haven't been to Albania yet, Kadare is the author to bring on that trip.
It's a rumination like this that reminds me: I gotta visit more pyramids. Haven't been to one since I went to Lamanai, in your English-speaking almost-neighboring country of Belize.
Well actually that's not totally true. I read Ismail Kadare's book recently, The Pyramid. It's essential to increase your cerebral understanding of the pyramid's greater symbolism. (though I suspect Senor Ortega wouldn't be a fan of Kadare's works) And if you haven't been to Albania yet, Kadare is the author to bring on that trip.
One might if thinking human slavery built the pyramids find Shelley's poem more in resonance with the soul.
I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”
More or less I feel trapped in 1840's Paris with precognition and no opium, just absinthe.