What is this one that I wanted to read to you?
Now see, too many views.
Now I read this in English.
It's called, "Letter to an exile."
When I was a young girl, I read the Odyssey.
And then I loved the Odyssey.
But then I couldn't believe that Penelope was
so stupid as to wait so long.
[LAUGHTER]
So I decided to write this letter.
It's called, "Letter to an exile."
It says, "My dear Odysseus, it is no longer possible,
my husband, that time goes flying by without my telling
you of my life in Ithaca.
Many years have gone by since you left.
Your absence weighs on your son and me.
My suitors began to fence me in.
There were so many and so tenacious in their flattery,
that the gods, taking pity on my anguish,
advised me to weave a subtle, interminable cloth that
would serve as your shroud.
If I finish it, I will have to choose a husband without delay.
The idea captivated me.
At sunrise, I set about weaving, and I even
wove during the night.
That went on for three years.
But now, Odysseus, my heart yearns
for a youth as handsome as you when young, as expert with bow
and lance.
Our house is in ruins, and I need
a man who knows how to rule it.
Telemachus is but a babe, and your father decrepit.
It is preferable, Odysseus, that you don't return.
Of my love for you, not even embers remain.
Telemachus is well.
He never asks for his father.
It would be better if we gave you up for dead.
I know from strangers about Calypso and Circe.
Seize your chance, Odysseus.
If you choose Calypso, you'll regain lost youth.
If Circe is the chosen one, among her swine,
you reign supreme.
I hope this letter does not offend you.
Don't invoke the gods.
It will be in vain.
Remember Menelaus and his Helen.
For that mad war, our best men have lost their lives,
and you are where you are.
Don't return, Odysseus, I beg you.
Your discreet Penelope.
[LAUGHTER]
[APPLAUSE]
Ah.
Thank you.