![]() ![]() The emperor in his crown, the consuls in their scarlet togas, the silent senate and the voiceless orators wait with the assembled masses to accept their arrival. All day the anticipation and the anxiety build as the locals wait for the barbarians, who are coming to take over the city. But in Cavafy’s “Waiting for the Barbarians” I see a reflection on the promise and the peril of identity. Poems, like identities, never have just one interpretation. ![]() Forster’s evocation of him as “a Greek gentleman in a straw hat, standing absolutely motionless at a slight angle to the universe.” 1 And I conjure Cavafy, here, at journey’s end, because I want to persuade you that he is representative precisely in all his seeming anomalousness. No single sentence captures this Alexandrian genius better than E. Much of his poetry is a map of Alexandria overlaid with a map of the classical world- modern Alexandria and ancient Athens- in the way that Leopold Bloom’s Dublin neighborhood underlies Odysseus’s Ithaca. He was a poet who resisted publication, save for broadsheets he circulated among close friends a man whose homeland was a neighborhood, and a dream. A government clerk of Eastern Orthodox Christian upbringing in a tributary state of a Muslim empire that was under British occupation for most of his life, he spent his evenings on foot, looking for pagan gods in their incarnate, carnal versions. Cavafy was a Greek who never lived in Greece. Born two years after Svevo, he died only a few years after him. Perhaps you know this poem? Constantine Cavafy was a writer whose every identity came with an asterisk, a quality he shared with Italo Svevo. Cavafy, “Waiting for the Barbarians” (1898) " And now what will become of us without barbarians? / Those people were a kind of solution." ![]()
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