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'
It
is
,
however
,
true
that
I
can
not
deny
a
sense
that
life
for
me
is
now
mysteriously
prolonged
.
Is
it
that
I
may
have
children
,
may
cast
a
fling
of
seed
wider
,
beyond
this
generation
,
this
doom-encircled
population
,
shuffling
each
other
in
endless
competition
along
the
street
?
My
daughters
shall
come
here
,
in
other
summers
;
my
sons
shall
turn
new
fields
.
Hence
we
are
not
raindrops
,
soon
dried
by
the
wind
;
we
make
gardens
blow
and
forests
roar
;
we
come
up
differently
,
for
ever
and
ever
.
This
,
then
,
serves
to
explain
my
confidence
,
my
central
stability
,
otherwise
so
monstrously
absurd
as
I
breast
the
stream
of
this
crowded
thoroughfare
,
making
always
a
passage
for
myself
between
people
's
bodies
,
taking
advantage
of
safe
moments
to
cross
.
It
is
not
vanity
;
for
I
am
emptied
of
ambition
;
I
do
not
remember
my
special
gifts
,
or
idiosyncrasy
,
or
the
marks
I
bear
on
my
person
;
eyes
,
nose
or
mouth
.
I
am
not
,
at
this
moment
,
myself
.
'
Yet
behold
,
it
returns
.
One
can
not
extinguish
that
persistent
smell
.
It
steals
in
through
some
crack
in
the
structure
--
one
's
identity
.
I
am
not
part
of
the
street
--
no
,
I
observe
the
street
.
One
splits
off
,
therefore
.
For
instance
,
up
that
back
street
a
girl
stands
waiting
;
for
whom
?
A
romantic
story
.
On
the
wall
of
that
shop
is
fixed
a
small
crane
,
and
for
what
reason
,
I
ask
,
was
that
crane
fixed
there
?
and
invent
a
purple
lady
swelling
,
circumambient
,
hauled
from
a
barouche
landau
by
a
perspiring
husband
sometime
in
the
sixties
.
A
grotesque
story
.
That
is
,
I
am
a
natural
coiner
of
words
,
a
blower
of
bubbles
through
one
thing
and
another
.
And
,
striking
off
these
observations
spontaneously
,
I
elaborate
myself
;
differentiate
myself
and
,
listening
to
the
voice
that
says
as
I
stroll
past
,
"
Look
!
Take
note
of
that
!
"
I
conceive
myself
called
upon
to
provide
,
some
winter
's
night
,
a
meaning
for
all
my
observations
--
a
line
that
runs
from
one
to
another
,
a
summing
up
that
completes
.
But
soliloquies
in
back
streets
soon
pall
.
I
need
an
audience
.
That
is
my
downfall
.
That
always
ruffles
the
edge
of
the
final
statement
and
prevents
it
from
forming
.
I
can
not
seat
myself
in
some
sordid
eating-house
and
order
the
same
glass
day
after
day
and
imbue
myself
entirely
in
one
fluid
--
this
life
.
I
make
my
phrase
and
run
off
with
it
to
some
furnished
room
where
it
will
be
lit
by
dozens
of
candles
.
I
need
eyes
on
me
to
draw
out
these
frills
and
furbelows
.
To
be
myself
(
I
note
)
I
need
the
illumination
of
other
people
's
eyes
,
and
therefore
can
not
be
entirely
sure
what
is
my
self
.
The
authentics
,
like
Louis
,
like
Rhoda
,
exist
most
completely
in
solitude
.
They
resent
illumination
,
reduplication
.
They
toss
their
pictures
once
painted
face
downward
on
the
field
.
On
Louis
'
words
the
ice
is
packed
thick
.
His
words
issue
pressed
,
condensed
,
enduring
.
'
I
wish
,
then
,
after
this
somnolence
to
sparkle
,
many-faceted
under
the
light
of
my
friends
'
faces
.
I
have
been
traversing
the
sunless
territory
of
non-identity
.
A
strange
land
.
I
have
heard
in
my
moment
of
appeasement
,
in
my
moment
of
obliterating
satisfaction
,
the
sigh
,
as
it
goes
in
,
comes
out
,
of
the
tide
that
draws
beyond
this
circle
of
bright
light
,
this
drumming
of
insensate
fury
.
I
have
had
one
moment
of
enormous
peace
.
This
perhaps
is
happiness
.
Now
I
am
drawn
back
by
pricking
sensations
;
by
curiosity
,
greed
(
I
am
hungry
)
and
the
irresistible
desire
to
be
myself
.
I
think
of
people
to
whom
I
could
say
things
:
Louis
,
Neville
,
Susan
,
Jinny
and
Rhoda
.
With
them
I
am
many-sided
.
They
retrieve
me
from
darkness
.
We
shall
meet
tonight
,
thank
Heaven
.
Thank
Heaven
,
I
need
not
be
alone
.
We
shall
dine
together
.
We
shall
say
good-bye
to
Percival
,
who
goes
to
India
.
The
hour
is
still
distant
,
but
I
feel
already
those
harbingers
,
those
outriders
,
figures
of
one
's
friends
in
absence
.
I
see
Louis
,
stone-carved
,
sculpturesque
;
Neville
,
scissor-cutting
,
exact
;
Susan
with
eyes
like
lumps
of
crystal
;
Jinny
dancing
like
a
flame
,
febrile
,
hot
,
over
dry
earth
;
and
Rhoda
the
nymph
of
the
fountain
always
wet
.
These
are
fantastic
pictures
--
these
are
figments
,
these
visions
of
friends
in
absence
,
grotesque
,
dropsical
,
vanishing
at
the
first
touch
of
the
toe
of
a
real
boot
.
Yet
they
drum
me
alive
.
They
brush
off
these
vapours
.
I
begin
to
be
impatient
of
solitude
--
to
feel
its
draperies
hang
sweltering
,
unwholesome
about
me
.
Oh
,
to
toss
them
off
and
be
active
!
Anybody
will
do
.
I
am
not
fastidious
.
The
crossing-sweeper
will
do
;
the
postman
;
the
waiter
in
this
French
restaurant
;
better
still
the
genial
proprietor
,
whose
geniality
seems
reserved
for
oneself
.
He
mixes
the
salad
with
his
own
hands
for
some
privileged
guest
.
Which
is
the
privileged
guest
,
I
ask
,
and
why
?
And
what
is
he
saying
to
the
lady
in
ear-rings
;
is
she
a
friend
or
a
customer
?
I
feel
at
once
,
as
I
sit
down
at
a
table
,
the
delicious
jostle
of
confusion
,
of
uncertainty
,
of
possibility
,
of
speculation
.
Images
breed
instantly
.
I
am
embarrassed
by
my
own
fertility
.
I
could
describe
every
chair
,
table
,
luncher
here
copiously
,
freely
.
My
mind
hums
hither
and
thither
with
its
veil
of
words
for
everything
.
To
speak
,
about
wine
even
to
the
waiter
,
is
to
bring
about
an
explosion
.
Up
goes
the
rocket
.
Its
golden
grain
falls
,
fertilizing
,
upon
the
rich
soil
of
my
imagination
.
The
entirely
unexpected
nature
of
this
explosion
--
that
is
the
joy
of
intercourse
.
I
,
mixed
with
an
unknown
Italian
waiter
--
what
am
I
?
There
is
no
stability
in
this
world
.
Who
is
to
say
what
meaning
there
is
in
anything
?
Who
is
to
foretell
the
flight
of
a
word
?
It
is
a
balloon
that
sails
over
tree-tops
.
To
speak
of
knowledge
is
futile
.
All
is
experiment
and
adventure
.
We
are
for
ever
mixing
ourselves
with
unknown
quantities
.
What
is
to
come
?
I
know
not
.
But
as
I
put
down
my
glass
I
remember
:
I
am
engaged
to
be
married
.
I
am
to
dine
with
my
friends
tonight
.
I
am
Bernard
,
myself
.
'
'
It
is
now
five
minutes
to
eight
,
'
said
Neville
.
'
I
have
come
early
.
I
have
taken
my
place
at
the
table
ten
minutes
before
the
time
in
order
to
taste
every
moment
of
anticipation
;
to
see
the
door
open
and
to
say
,
"
Is
it
Percival
?
No
;
it
is
not
Percival
.
"
There
is
a
morbid
pleasure
in
saying
:
"
No
,
it
is
not
Percival
.
"
I
have
seen
the
door
open
and
shut
twenty
times
already
;
each
time
the
suspense
sharpens
.
This
is
the
place
to
which
he
is
coming
.
This
is
the
table
at
which
he
will
sit
.
Here
,
incredible
as
it
seems
,
will
be
his
actual
body
.
This
table
,
these
chairs
,
this
metal
vase
with
its
three
red
flowers
are
about
to
undergo
an
extraordinary
transformation
.
Already
the
room
,
with
its
swing-doors
,
its
tables
heaped
with
fruit
,
with
cold
joints
,
wears
the
wavering
,
unreal
appearance
of
a
place
where
one
waits
expecting
something
to
happen
.
Things
quiver
as
if
not
yet
in
being
.
The
blankness
of
the
white
table-cloth
glares
.
The
hostility
,
the
indifference
of
other
people
dining
here
is
oppressive
.
We
look
at
each
other
;
see
that
we
do
not
know
each
other
,
stare
,
and
go
off
.
Such
looks
are
lashes
.
I
feel
the
whole
cruelty
and
indifference
of
the
world
in
them
.
If
he
should
not
come
I
could
not
bear
it
.
I
should
go
.
Yet
somebody
must
be
seeing
him
now
.
He
must
be
in
some
cab
;
he
must
be
passing
some
shop
.
And
every
moment
he
seems
to
pump
into
this
room
this
prickly
light
,
this
intensity
of
being
,
so
that
things
have
lost
their
normal
uses
--
this
knife-blade
is
only
a
flash
of
light
,
not
a
thing
to
cut
with
.
The
normal
is
abolished
.
'
The
door
opens
,
but
he
does
not
come
.
That
is
Louis
hesitating
there
.
That
is
his
strange
mixture
of
assurance
and
timidity
.
He
looks
at
himself
in
the
looking-glass
as
he
comes
in
;
he
touches
his
hair
;
he
is
dissatisfied
with
his
appearance
.
He
says
,
"
I
am
a
Duke
--
the
last
of
an
ancient
race
.
"
He
is
acrid
,
suspicious
,
domineering
,
difficult
(
I
am
comparing
him
with
Percival
)
.
At
the
same
time
he
is
formidable
,
for
there
is
laughter
in
his
eyes
.
He
has
seen
me
.
Here
he
is
.
'
