Acrocorinth. One sees the world open out to the horizon, from the span of Attica to the slopes of Parnassus, across the tenuous isthmus, the Peloponnese now broken to an island by the works of man. On the isle of Pelops, taciturn rocks lie uneven as a rumpled blanket, jagged as a broken shield. From this height all sound has been absorbed by history; the shouting of one’s compatriots sinks into the silence, drowned by wind and sun.
My bag, outside the American School
Athens, Greece (3 July 2001; usual camera)