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1 " Mental discipline, prayer and remoteness from the world and its disturbing visions reduce temptation to a minimum, but they can never entirely abolish it. In medieval traditions, abbeys and convents were always considered to be expugnable centres of revolt against infernal dominion on earth. They became, accordingly, special targets. Satan, issuing orders at nightfall to his foul precurrers, was rumoured to dispatch to capital cities only one junior fiend. This solitary demon, the legend continues, sleeps at his post. There is no work for him; the battle was long ago won. But monasteries, those scattered danger points, become the chief objectives of nocturnal flight; the sky fills with the beat of sable wings as phalanx after phalanx streams to the attack, and the darkness crepitates with the splintering of a myriad lances against the masonry of asceticism. "
― Patrick Leigh Fermor , A Time to Keep Silence
2 " Ξάφνου μ' ένα χαμόγελο θυμόμουν τους πατέρες Διόνυσο και Γαβριήλ, τους αδερφούς Θεοφύλακτο, Χρίστο και Πολύκαρπο, τους γενάτους, μακρυμάλληδες, καλημαυχοφόρους οικοδεσπότες και προστάτες μου στην Κρήτη κατά την διάρκεια του πολέμου, που ‘βάζαν τις ρακές, έσπαγαν καρύδια, έλεγαν τραγούδια του βουνού, έλυναν κι έδεναν πιστόλια, μου έκαναν ατελείωτες ερωτήσεις για τον Τσόρτσιλ και ροχάλιζαν κάτω από τα λιόδεντρα, ενώ οι αχτίδες του ήλιου έπεφταν κάθετα στο Λιβυκό Πέλαγος. "
3 " In the daylight that followed my arrival, the pale grey Trappe resembled not so much an abbey as a hospital, an asylum or a reformatory. It dwindled off into farm buildings, and came to an end in the fields where thousands of turnips led their secret lives and reared into the air their little frostbitten banners. Among the furrows an image mouldered on its pedestal; and, under a sky of clouded steel, the rooks cawed and wheeled and settled. Across the December landscape, flat and waterlogged with its clumps of drizzling coppice and barren-looking pasture-land, ran a rutted path which disappeared beneath an avenue of elm-trees. Willows, blurred and colourless as the detail of an aquatint, receded in the mist; and, here and there, the pallor of the woods was interrupted by funereal clumps of pine. Isolated monks, all of them hooded and clogged, at work in the fields, ploughing or chopping wood, dotted this sodden panorama and the report of their falling axes reached the ear long seconds after the visual impact. Others were driving slow herds of cattle to graze. "
4 " Ο χρόνος σ΄ένα μοναστήρι περνά με ανησυχητική ταχύτητα. Εκτός από τις μεγάλες γιορτές της Εκκλησίας, δεν υπάρχουν άλλα ορόσημα που να τον χωρίζουν πέραν του κύκλου των εποχών. Και διαπίστωσα ότι οι μέρες, και σύντομα οι εβδομάδες, περνούσαν σχεδόν απαρατήρητες. Η ταχύτητα της παρέλευσης του χρόνου είναι ένα φαινόμενο που το προσέχει κάθε μοναχός: έξι μήνες, ένα χρόνος, δεκαπέντε χρόνια, μια ζωή, σύντομα τελειώνουν. "
