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Prologue
On the Cliff
The future
Will remember us.
—Sappho
Where to begin my story? The minstrels
counsel us to begin in the midst of things where excitement is at its peak. Well, then,
imagine me, trudging in a whipping, cold wind to the top of the Leucadian cliff where the
sanctuary of Apollo still stands. It is said they practiced human sacrifice here in
ancient times. The place still has that air, the old odor of blood. All the magic places
on earth have that smell.
There are little clumps of stunted pine trees along my way and these
golden sandals I wear are no match for the rocks that roll and skitter under my feet as I
climb. More than once I have twisted my ankle and fallen. My knees are as raw as when I
was a climbing girl.
I have been at sea for many days and, climbing to the top of the white
cliff, I still feel the rocking of the ship under my feet.
I am unimaginably oldófifty. Only witches live to be fifty! Good women
die in childbirth at seventeen as I nearly did. By fifty I should be dead or a croneówith
my dark looks and my somewhat crooked spineówhich I have always disguised with capes of
multicolored silk. My youth is gone, but my vanity is not. How can I still dream of love
at fifty? I must be mad!
My black hair, which used to glisten like wet violets on an ebony
altar, is now a steely gray. I have stopped letting my slaves dye it. I do not like to
look at my reflection these days. Even the thickest paint cannot disguise the wrinkles.
Yet I have my wiles, my perfumes, my potions, my magic salves as much as Aphrodite has
hers. I can still make someone love meóif only for a little while.
In the past it was the charm of youth I conjured with. Now it is the
charm of fame. And I am skilled with my lips, my hands, my voice. I know the perfumed
secrets of the courtesans of Naucratis, the clandestine rituals of the dancing girls of
Syracuse, the obscene melodies of the flute girls of Lesbos.
So many stories about me. My legend confused with the legends of
Aphrodite. Did I leap to my death for the love of a handsome young ferryman? Did I love
women or men? Does love even have a sex? I doubt it. If you are lucky enough to love, who
cares what decorative flesh your lover sports? The divine delta, that juicy fig, the
powerful phallus, that scepter of stateóeach is only an aspect of Aphrodite, after all.
We are all hermaphrodites at heartóarenít we? The delta is soft as Aphrodite, the
phallus stiff as Aresí spear. And no one wears anything for long but a coat of dust. Only
the songs of passion linger.
The beautiful ferry boy liked my fame. Like all beautiful ferry boys,
he dreamed of being a famous singer. He would make up songs as he rowed. So what if his
songs were banal? So what if he borrowed from me and every other minstrel back to Homer?
He was beautiful and his voice was black honey. His ringlets were ebony. His eyes were
agates. His chin had a beguiling cleft.
The islanders probably think I am desolate because some lover abandoned
me. What rot! I toyed with him more than he toyed with me. He was the plaything of a week.
My real despair came because Aphrodite withdrew her favors. Aphrodite needs nothing from
me. She always has new singers to celebrate her. So what if they are my students,
acolytes, and imitators? So what if they learned everything they know from me? The goddess
of love favors the young. She always has.
Forever fresh-faced, forever nubile, how can Aphrodite know what it
means to lose beauty and youth, inspiration and passion? The gods are cold. They never
experience the loss of beauty, so they laugh at our sorrows. I used to love Aphrodite as
she loved me. Now I find her love as hard as these rocks beneath my feet. She has turned
her beautiful young face away from me.
Age seizes my skin
And turns my hair
From black to white:
My legs no longer carry me
Lightly, nimbly
Dancing like young fawns.
What can I do?
I am not eternal
Though my songs may be.
Can pink-armed Dawn,
Who could not save her love
Erase these harbingers of age?
My youth is gone.
Still I adore
The sun.
Excerpted from SAPPHO'S LEAP © Copyright 2008 by Erica Jong. Reprinted with permission by W. W. Norton. All rights reserved.
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