Perhaps you know the story of a sculptor who from warm ivory carved a woman perfect in form, precise in shape, in detail, exquisite, in attention, minute.  No?  Well…it was like this: In ancient Cyprus, home of the beautiful, terrible Aphrodite, the sculptor, Pygmalion, created a statue of the ideal, perfect woman, Galatea, whom he desperately, ardently, impossibly loved.  The rest is history, a history that you might read in Ovid’s Latin telling, or here in spirited, skilled, subtle, erotic English verse, Galatea: The Statue Comes to Life.

In Galatea, be sensually warmed by the Aegean sun, with ease recline into the arms of foam-borne Aphrodite, breathe easy, free of Progressively censored opinion, move openly, loosed of the Modernist corset, be Classive, be good, be beautiful, be true, and you will be at home in the body of your imagination, some three-thousand years ago.

* This book concerns aesthetics, the sensual propagation of art, it is erotic, unsuitable to delicate readers.


THE AESTHETICON is a single work, a tetralogy of libretti (musical verse plays) which tell of aesthetic generation, each generation personified in a goddess, Pandora, Galatea, Amaron, Nyx: Pandora, the fanciful origination of Man; Galatea, the sensual propagation of Art; Amaron, the imaginary genesis of the Artist; Nyx, the sterile breeding of Style.  Greek-like, the Aristotelian form is by nature observed: id est, each libretti, each play, each section assumes the mythical persona of a goddess; then, amending Aristotle, each section compasses time, as is suitable to each in the mounting of time historically; each, a comedy composed in that meter suitable to human, English breath, to the human heartbeat, iambic pentameter.

     Pandora: iambic tetrameter; one day; mythical past; comedy

     Galatea: iambic pentameter; one week; antiquity; comedy

     Amaron: variable; one lifetime; recent past; comedy

     Nyx: iambic tetrameter; real time; near future; tragic-comedy



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From the Back Cover

Whiter Galatea than are the snow-white petals, slimmer than the adder, more flowery than are meadows, fresher than the tender kid, more splendid than is crystal, smoother than are shells polished in the tides.

Truer Galatea than maidens of the moon, humbler than are peacocks, less astringent than perfumes, softer than are butterflies, less quarrelsome than are hens, finer than are women who breathe and age and die.