12 April 1810, Thursday entry

(…) Went on shore with Captain Bathurst and Lord Byron. Town [blot] in ruins from Russians, but still a shop or two, and some parts rebuilding. Once must have been a considerable capital for such an island, having a castle surrounded with a moat. Saw an [ ] piece of Granite brought from Alexandria of Troas.
A crowd of Turks on shore belonging to several small ships, detained in the little harbour by the southerly wind, surrounded and listened to Lord Byron.
Captain Bathurst and I walked, and where treated to coffee by the principal Turk of the place, at the deal shop of a miserable-looking Greek, who had called himself "English Consul", and who had been sent in a boat to signior Tarragona, Jew and British Vice-Consul at the Dardanelles, to advise him of our approach. Here one of the Turks said, "When the English came here in wartime, they asked us only for a draught of water - but the Russians, they burnt our town and took everything, as you see."

Diary of John Cam Hobhouse

Juni 1832

(...)
En drømmende stemning, som 1821 var fuld af ømhed og senere blev filosofisk og melankolsk (uden at forsøge på at være forfængelig ville jeg kunne sige at den var præcis ligesom Jacques i As you like it), er for mig blevet en sådan nydelse at når en god ven kommer imod mig ville jeg kunne skyde ham for at forhindre ham i at tiltale mig. Bare åsynet af nogen jeg kender gør mig ubehageligt til mode halvtreds skridt i forvejen. Derimod elsker jeg at træffe gode venner i selskabslivet om aftenerne, om lørdagen hos M. Cuvier, om søndagen hos M. de Tracy, om tirsdagen hos Mme Ancelot, om onsdagen hos baron Gérard osv...

Stendhal: En egocentrikers erindringer

Jeg elsker Tjekkoslovakiet på en anden måde end Hitler gjorde, men dig elsker jeg som Hitler elskede Tjekkoslovakiet. Jeg mener at hun ikke interesserer mig længere, ikke mere end et hvilket som helst erobret område, en knappenål på kortet, og jeg ved ikke om jeg føler nogen tilfredsstillelse. Jeg fik et brød, som indeholdt en sten; min far var sådan.

Pentti Saarikoski: Tiden i Prag

AT NORTH FARM

Somewhere someone is traveling furiously toward you,
At incredible speed, traveling day and night,
Through blizzards and desert heat, across torrents, through narrow passes.
But will he know where to find you,
Recognize you when he sees you,
Give you the thing he has for you?

Hardly anything grows here,
Yet the granaries are bursting with meal,
The sacks of meal piled to the rafters.
The streams run with sweetness fattening fish;
Birds darken the sky. Is it enough
That the dish of milk is set out at night,
That we think of him sometimes,
Sometimes and always, with mixed feelings?

John Ashbery: A Wave