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No. 1
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No. 2 |
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No. 3 |
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No. 4 |
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No. 5
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No. 6 |
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No. 7 |
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No. 8 |
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Click on the images for a more detailed view and for a return. |
No. 9
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No. 10 |
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No. 11 |
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High heels clack hollow on the resonant stone stairs.
Tapping clacking heels, a high and hollow noise.
There is one below would speak with your ladyship.
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Mio padre: she does the simplest acts with distinction.
The old man's face,
handsome, flushed, with strongly Jewish features and
long white whiskers, turns towards me as we walk down
the hill together. O! Perfectly said: courtesy, benevo-
lence, curiosity, trust, suspicion, naturalness, helpless-
ness of age, confidence, frankness, urbanity, sincerity,
warning, pathos, compassion: a perfect blend. Ignatius
Loyola, make haste to help me!
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The sellers offer on their altars the first fruits: green-
flecked lemons, jewelled cherries, shameful peaches
with torn leaves. The carriage passes through the lane
of canvas stalls, its wheel-spokes spinning in the glare.
Make way! Her father and his son sit in the carriage.
They have owls' eyes and owls' wisdom. Owlish wisdom
stares from their eyes brooding upon the lore of their
Summa contra Gentiles.
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She listens: virgin most prudent.
A skirt caught back by her sudden moving knee; a
white lace edging of an underskirt lifted unduly; a leg-
stretched web of stocking. Si pol?
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In the raw veiled spring morning faint odours float of
morning Paris: aniseed, damp sawdust, hot dough of
bread: and as I cross the Pont Saint Michel the steel-
blue waking waters chill my heart.
Upon the steps of the far high altar, naked as the body
of the Lord, the ministers lie prostrate in weak prayer.
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She walks before me along the corridor and as she walks
a dark coil of her hair slowly uncoils and falls. Slowly
uncoiling, falling hair.
Operated. The surgeon's knife has probed in her entrails
and withdrawn, leaving the raw jagged gash of its
passage on her belly.
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She stands black-robed at the telephone. Little timid
laughs, little cries, timid runs of speech suddenly
broken . . . . Parlerò colla mamma . . . . Come! chook,
chook! come! The black pullet is frightened: little runs
suddenly broken, little timid cries: it is crying for its
mamma, the portly hen.
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Those quiet cold fingers have touched the pages, foul
and fair, on which my shame shall glow for ever. Quiet
and cold and pure fingers. Have they never erred?
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Whirling wreaths of grey vapour upon the heath. Her
face, how grey and grave! Dank matted hair. Her lips
press softly, her sighing breath comes through. Kissed.
My voice, dying in the echoes of its words, dies like the
wisdom-wearied voice of the Eternal calling on Abra-
ham through echoing hills. She leans back against
the pillowed wall: odalisque-featured in the luxur-
ious obscurity.
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She stands in the yellow
shadow of the hall, a plaid cloak shielding from chills
her sinking shoulders: and as I halt in wonder and look
about me she greets me wintrily and passes up the
staircase darting at me for an instant out of her sluggish
sidelong eyes a jet of liquorish venom.
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Unreadiness. A bare apartment. Torbid daylight.
Poised on its edge a
woman's hat, red-flowered, and umbrella, furled. Her
arms: a casque, gules, and blunt spear on a field, sable.
Envoy: Love me, love my umbrella.
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