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'N
ow
this
room
seems
to
me
central
,
something
scooped
out
of
the
eternal
night
.
Outside
lines
twist
and
intersect
,
but
round
us
,
wrapping
us
about
.
Here
we
are
centred
.
Here
we
can
be
silent
,
or
speak
without
raising
our
voices
.
Did
you
notice
that
and
then
that
?
we
say
.
He
said
that
,
meaning
...
She
hesitated
,
and
I
believe
suspected
.
Anyhow
,
I
heard
voices
,
a
sob
on
the
stair
late
at
night
.
It
is
the
end
of
their
relationship
.
Thus
we
spin
round
us
infinitely
fine
filaments
and
construct
a
system
.
Plato
and
Shakespeare
are
included
,
also
quite
obscure
people
,
people
of
no
importance
whatsoever
.
I
hate
men
who
wear
crucifixes
on
the
left
side
of
their
waistcoats
.
I
hate
ceremonies
and
lamentations
and
the
sad
figure
of
Christ
trembling
beside
another
trembling
and
sad
figure
.
Also
the
pomp
and
the
indifference
and
the
emphasis
,
always
on
the
wrong
place
,
of
people
holding
forth
under
chandeliers
in
full
evening
dress
,
wearing
stars
and
decorations
.
Some
spray
in
a
hedge
,
though
,
or
a
sunset
over
a
flat
winter
field
,
or
again
the
way
some
old
woman
sits
,
arms
akimbo
,
in
an
omnibus
with
a
basket
--
those
we
point
at
for
the
other
to
look
at
.
It
is
so
vast
an
alleviation
to
be
able
to
point
for
another
to
look
at
.
And
then
not
to
talk
.
To
follow
the
dark
paths
of
the
mind
and
enter
the
past
,
to
visit
books
,
to
brush
aside
their
branches
and
break
off
some
fruit
.
And
you
take
it
and
marvel
,
as
I
take
the
careless
movements
of
your
body
and
marvel
at
its
ease
,
its
power
--
how
you
fling
open
windows
and
are
dexterous
with
your
hands
.
For
alas
!
my
mind
is
a
little
impeded
,
it
soon
tires
;
I
fall
damp
,
perhaps
disgusting
,
at
the
goal
.
'
Alas
!
I
could
not
ride
about
India
in
a
sun
helmet
and
return
to
a
bungalow
.
I
can
not
tumble
,
as
you
do
,
like
half-naked
boys
on
the
deck
of
a
ship
,
squirting
each
other
with
hose-pipes
.
I
want
this
fire
,
I
want
this
chair
.
I
want
someone
to
sit
beside
me
after
the
day
's
pursuit
and
all
its
anguish
,
after
its
listenings
,
and
its
waitings
,
and
its
suspicions
.
After
quarrelling
and
reconciliation
I
need
privacy
--
to
be
alone
with
you
,
to
set
this
hubbub
in
order
.
For
I
am
as
neat
as
a
cat
in
my
habits
.
We
must
oppose
the
waste
and
deformity
of
the
world
,
its
crowds
eddying
round
and
round
disgorged
and
trampling
.
One
must
slip
paper-knives
,
even
,
exactly
through
the
pages
of
novels
,
and
tie
up
packets
of
letters
neatly
with
green
silk
,
and
brush
up
the
cinders
with
a
hearth
broom
.
Everything
must
be
done
to
rebuke
the
horror
of
deformity
.
Let
us
read
writers
of
Roman
severity
and
virtue
;
let
us
seek
perfection
through
the
sand
.
Yes
,
but
I
love
to
slip
the
virtue
and
severity
of
the
noble
Romans
under
the
grey
light
of
your
eyes
,
and
dancing
grasses
and
summer
breezes
and
the
laughter
and
shouts
of
boys
at
play
--
of
naked
cabin-boys
squirting
each
other
with
hosepipes
on
the
decks
of
ships
.
Hence
I
am
not
a
disinterested
seeker
,
like
Louis
,
after
perfection
through
the
sand
.
Colours
always
stain
the
page
;
clouds
pass
over
it
.
And
the
poem
,
I
think
,
is
only
your
voice
speaking
.
Alcibiades
,
Ajax
,
Hector
and
Percival
are
also
you
.
They
loved
riding
,
they
risked
their
lives
wantonly
,
they
were
not
great
readers
either
.
But
you
are
not
Ajax
or
Percival
.
They
did
not
wrinkle
their
noses
and
scratch
their
foreheads
with
your
precise
gesture
.
You
are
you
.
That
is
what
consoles
me
for
the
lack
of
many
things
--
I
am
ugly
,
I
am
weak
--
and
the
depravity
of
the
world
,
and
the
flight
of
youth
and
Percival
's
death
,
and
bitterness
and
rancour
and
envies
innumerable
.
'
But
if
one
day
you
do
not
come
after
breakfast
,
if
one
day
I
see
you
in
some
looking-glass
perhaps
looking
after
another
,
if
the
telephone
buzzes
and
buzzes
in
your
empty
room
,
I
shall
then
,
after
unspeakable
anguish
,
I
shall
then
--
for
there
is
no
end
to
the
folly
of
the
human
heart
--
seek
another
,
find
another
,
you
.
Meanwhile
,
let
us
abolish
the
ticking
of
time
's
clock
with
one
blow
.
Come
closer
.
'
The
sun
had
now
sunk
lower
in
the
sky
.
The
islands
of
cloud
had
gained
in
density
and
drew
themselves
across
the
sun
so
that
the
rocks
went
suddenly
black
,
and
the
trembling
sea
holly
lost
its
blue
and
turned
silver
,
and
shadows
were
blown
like
grey
cloths
over
the
sea
.
The
waves
no
longer
visited
the
further
pools
or
reached
the
dotted
black
line
which
lay
irregularly
upon
the
beach
.
The
sand
was
pearl
white
,
smoothed
and
shining
.
Birds
swooped
and
circled
high
up
in
the
air
.
Some
raced
in
the
furrows
of
the
wind
and
turned
and
sliced
through
them
as
if
they
were
one
body
cut
into
a
thousand
shreds
.
Birds
fell
like
a
net
descending
on
the
tree-tops
.
Here
one
bird
taking
its
way
alone
made
wing
for
the
marsh
and
sat
solitary
on
a
white
stake
,
opening
its
wings
and
shutting
them
.
Some
petals
had
fallen
in
the
garden
.
They
lay
shell-shaped
on
the
earth
.
The
dead
leaf
no
longer
stood
upon
its
edge
,
but
had
been
blown
,
now
running
,
now
pausing
,
against
some
stalk
.
Through
all
the
flowers
the
same
wave
of
light
passed
in
a
sudden
flaunt
and
flash
as
if
a
fin
cut
the
green
glass
of
a
lake
.
Now
and
again
some
level
and
masterly
blast
blew
the
multitudinous
leaves
up
and
down
and
then
,
as
the
wind
flagged
,
each
blade
regained
its
identity
.
The
flowers
,
burning
their
bright
discs
in
the
sun
,
flung
aside
the
sunlight
as
the
wind
tossed
them
,
and
then
some
heads
too
heavy
to
rise
again
drooped
slightly
.
The
afternoon
sun
warmed
the
fields
,
poured
blue
into
the
shadows
and
reddened
the
corn
.
A
deep
varnish
was
laid
like
a
lacquer
over
the
fields
.
A
cart
,
a
horse
,
a
flock
of
rooks
--
whatever
moved
in
it
was
rolled
round
in
gold
.
If
a
cow
moved
a
leg
it
stirred
ripples
of
red
gold
,
and
its
horns
seemed
lined
with
light
.
Sprays
of
flaxen-haired
corn
lay
on
the
hedges
,
brushed
from
the
shaggy
carts
that
came
up
from
the
meadows
short
legged
and
primeval
looking
.
The
round-headed
clouds
never
dwindled
as
they
bowled
along
,
but
kept
every
atom
of
their
rotundity
.
Now
,
as
they
passed
,
they
caught
a
whole
village
in
the
fling
of
their
net
and
,
passing
,
let
it
fly
free
again
.
Far
away
on
the
horizon
,
among
the
million
grains
of
blue-grey
dust
,
burnt
one
pane
,
or
stood
the
single
line
of
one
steeple
or
one
tree
.
