< p>Published by Thermiakos Publishing, this is the novel by Heraklis Tsiamalos titled "Feminine Seasons". It is a book that recounts the journey of a man who starts from an island, with a deep love for...< p>
< p>Published by Thermiakos Publishing, this is the novel by Heraklis Tsiamalos titled "Feminine Seasons". It is a book that recounts the journey of a man who starts from an island, with a deep love for the sea, and ends up tested by choices, passions, and the consequences of his life. The hero grows up amidst the vast blue, in a place where the sea is not just...< p>
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< p>Published by Thermiakos Publishing, this is the novel by Heraklis Tsiamalos titled "Feminine Seasons". It is a book that recounts the journey of a man who starts from an island, with a deep love for the sea, and ends up tested by choices, passions, and the consequences of his life. The hero grows up amidst the vast blue, in a place where the sea is not just scenery, but a way of thinking and being. Still young, he becomes entangled in intense and often dangerous relationships with women who shape his emotional and moral path. The "feminine seasons" of his life become sometimes a port and sometimes a storm. His move to the capital marks a new era: ambitions, wealth, social ascent. There, he encounters the allure of power and the temptation of infidelity. However, success comes with moral dilemmas and choices that gradually distance him from himself.
< p>"Feminine Seasons" is a novel about love, loss, ambition, and responsibility. A story that highlights the power of choices and the price of human desire. A book that takes the reader from the saltiness of the island to the harsh reality of the city—and ultimately, to inner purification.
< p>Text from the back cover
< p>Only I in the family loved the sea. For others, it was something natural, obvious, which brings a little joy and many problems. All my childhood tastes had salt. The saltiness of the sea penetrated everywhere: in chairs, on the table, in the blanket, in my childhood tears. The screams from the rigging resisting the wind at ten and eleven Beaufort, the dark nights of November, or in Martina, the great spring storm, didn't scare me. On the contrary, I wished I were at sea, traveling...
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