He quickened his step, yearning to begin on his first original philosophical work, which twenty‑five years later he would christen Narcissus.
Nothing had changed here in a year, as if time had no power over this small piece of the world. And even the beekeeper – a still young, moustached fellow – though somewhat gloomy – met him with the same avaricious smile and, showing him where the water and food were kept, hurried off somewhere, almost as if he had been expecting Hryhoriy’s arrival.
Having snacked, Skovoroda took his books out of his bag, some paper and an inkwell filled with ink, and while the sun was still shining, set to work.
What should he begin with? Who would take part in this debate? Porfyriy, Iov... No, they had no place in a book which endured time and enmity, like this g
