The Praise Singer: A Novel

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So I shall never waste my life-span in a vain useless hope, seeking what cannot be, a flawless man among us all who feed on the fruits of the broad earth. If I find him, I will bring you news.

But I praise and love every man who does nothing base from free will. Against necessity, even gods do not fight.

SIMONIDES

SICILY

A GOOD SONG, I think. The end’s good—that came to me in one piece—and the rest will do. The boy will need to write it, I suppose, as well as hear it. Trusting to the pen; a disgrace, and he with his own name made. But write he will, never keep it in the place between his ears. And even then he won’t get it right alone. I still do better after one hearing of something new than he can after three. I doubt he’d keep even his own songs for long, if he didn’t write them. So what can I do, unless I’m to be remembered only by what’s carved in marble? Tell them in Lakedaimon, passer-by, that here, obedient to their word, we lie. They’ll remember that.

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