Κοινότητα Αναγνωστών Βιβλίων - readers.gr

A story with heroes from the sculpture collection of the National Archaeological Museum in Athens.

I believe you've heard of the clay spindle-wheel that hung, so many years ago, from the spindle of a distaff. One day, it decided it couldn't bear it anymore, and escaped through an open window... Well, that was the same night that it came to my bedroom. "I know eight beautiful stories", it sang, and then spun around in front of me, perfectly round and shining bright. I blew it a kiss and the spindle-wheel sparkled and flew up high above the clouds. But I saw it again. I came to my bedroom, eight evenings in a row. Every night, twirling round happily, it would tell me a...

"They call me Democlides, and I come from the sea," said the man. For a moment, he ran his fingers awkwardly throught his curly hair, and then continued: "My ship sank!" "So then you could tell me all about your adventures!" Phoebos suggested. The man smiled and, blushing slightly, exclaimed: "By the goddess Aphrodite! That may be a very good idea..." Myth and legend mix up around the ancient ship Glafki, which one day set from the Ylaic port of Kerkyra towards Sicily. In the summer of 1993, during a reconnaissance dive near the shores of a small, uninhabited island sou...

I believe you've heard of the clay spindle-wheel that hung, so many years ago, from the spindle of a distaff. One day, it decided it couldn't bear it anymore, and escaped through an open window... Well, that was the same night that it came to my bedroom. "I know eight beautiful stories", it sang, and then spun around in front of me, perfectly round and shining bright. I blew it a kiss and the spindle-wheel sparkled and flew up high above the clouds. But I saw it again. I came to my bedroom, eight evenings in a row. Every night, twirling round happily, it would tell me a...

I believe you've heard of the clay spindle-wheel that hung, so many years ago, from the spindle of a distaff. One day, it decided it couldn't bear it anymore, and escaped through an open window... Well, that was the same night that it came to my bedroom. "I know eight beautiful stories", it sang, and then spun around in front of me, perfectly round and shining bright. I blew it a kiss and the spindle-wheel sparkled and flew up high above the clouds. But I saw it again. I came to my bedroom, eight evenings in a row. Every night, twirling round happily, it would tell me a...

I believe you've heard of the clay spindle-wheel that hung, so many years ago, from the spindle of a distaff. One day, it decided it couldn't bear it anymore, and escaped through an open window... Well, that was the same night that it came to my bedroom. "I know eight beautiful stories", it sang, and then spun around in front of me, perfectly round and shining bright. I blew it a kiss and the spindle-wheel sparkled and flew up high above the clouds. But I saw it again. I came to my bedroom, eight evenings in a row. Every night, twirling round happily, it would tell me a...

I believe you've heard of the clay spindle-wheel that hung, so many years ago, from the spindle of a distaff. One day, it decided it couldn't bear it anymore, and escaped through an open window... Well, that was the same night that it came to my bedroom. "I know eight beautiful stories", it sang, and then spun around in front of me, perfectly round and shining bright. I blew it a kiss and the spindle-wheel sparkled and flew up high above the clouds. But I saw it again. I came to my bedroom, eight evenings in a row. Every night, twirling round happily, it would tell me a...

I believe you've heard of the clay spindle-wheel that hung, so many years ago, from the spindle of a distaff. One day, it decided it couldn't bear it anymore, and escaped through an open window... Well, that was the same night that it came to my bedroom. "I know eight beautiful stories", it sang, and then spun around in front of me, perfectly round and shining bright. I blew it a kiss and the spindle-wheel sparkled and flew up high above the clouds. But I saw it again. I came to my bedroom, eight evenings in a row. Every night, twirling round happily, it would tell me a...

I believe you've heard of the clay spindle-wheel that hung, so many years ago, from the spindle of a distaff. One day, it decided it couldn't bear it anymore, and escaped through an open window... Well, that was the same night that it came to my bedroom. "I know eight beautiful stories", it sang, and then spun around in front of me, perfectly round and shining bright. I blew it a kiss and the spindle-wheel sparkled and flew up high above the clouds. But I saw it again. I came to my bedroom, eight evenings in a row. Every night, twirling round happily, it would tell me a...

I believe you've heard of the clay spindle-wheel that hung, so many years ago, from the spindle of a distaff. One day, it decided it couldn't bear it anymore, and escaped through an open window... Well, that was the same night that it came to my bedroom. "I know eight beautiful stories", it sang, and then spun around in front of me, perfectly round and shining bright. I blew it a kiss and the spindle-wheel sparkled and flew up high above the clouds. But I saw it again. I came to my bedroom, eight evenings in a row. Every night, twirling round happily, it would tell me a...

Ένα πείραμα-παιχνίδι μεταξύ δύο δημιουργών που εργάστηκαν ανεξάρτητα: κόντρα στην αποξένωση που βιώνει ο άνθρωπος της σύγχρονης αστικής εποχής, ο αρχιτέκτονας / εικαστικός Διονύσης Κωνσταντόπουλος αποτυπώνει μια άλλη πραγματικότητα, εμποτισμένη με ιστορία, τέχνη και φιλοσοφία, και ο σεναριογράφος Δημήτρης Βανέλλης ντύνει την πραγματικότητα αυτή με λέξεις. Οι εντυπώσεις, διαφορετικές για κάθε θεατή και αναγνώστη, αφυπνίζουν τη συνείδηση και θυμίζουν μια αθωότητα που ίσως δεν έχουμε χάσει ακόμα.