reappeared to them in sleep . . . They saw them upright, steady, still in the garden cross-walk, waiting till they could get out of that prison to be reunited and go on to heaven knows where . . .
Â
Generous, impatient outbursts of that blond young fellow, all eyes and sinews of steel, jammed into a straitjacket near my grandfatherâs bed in the first days: Near the big window . . .
He SAW her, he leapt up to go to her, and she always turned off toward the shrubbery and didnât see him. And didnât see his chained love, and he was tied up by his rival who wanted to steal her from him . . .
But who couldnât because now he had written to the queen, and she will come with coach and footmen and maid servants to free him.
But in the meanwhile she has turned off by the myrtles and donât know this. Let the queen come and she will fix it O.K.
It grows dark and she is still there by the standing still.
Perhaps she is chained and donât hear, and donât see her lover behind the barred window, in pain, crying out, and making signs. But he canât call her by name because her name is made up of letters that arenât in the alphabet any longer.
And the women that so terrified me in my grandfatherâs stories,
women turned into mooing buffaloes in bestial conjunctions in the marshes of the maremma. I can still see them going on all fours prodded on by pock-marked guardians in white overalls.
And the others that tear off their clothes without knowing why, and have lost all shame and talk excitedly with the men without suspicion of sex, and at night roll up in the moonlight like hedgehogs in underbrush.
Violent men that had killed many kings of the earth so that mankind might be sated with goods, who support your chains with pride, and shake every now and again and tug at the straps that bind you. To run again to your place of combat in the world, shoving it along with mighty heaves so that it will revolve more quickly. Beautiful and terrible your bloody fury! How many times have you slept with me on my cot, with the few coverlets in those long winter nights.
Donât kill me. I am not a kingâs son.
And I would wake up and think of the sons of kings born with such cruel destinies. One does not know why God puts so heavy a burden on their shoulders.
And those women huddled weeping on the ground from morning till evening.
Undone, because they have forgotten, lost something they can not find again.
And they bend over, opening their eyes wide and full of tears. These
lanterns lit on a rainy night, to hunt in the corners, in the cracks of the pavement, in the chinks of the wall.
They have lost something. What have they lost? They wander about sobbing like marmosets, souls in purgatory paying their sins, seventy years for each lie.
And look at the doctors with eyes half shut, leering at the other women of whom they are jealous. They walk along scraping the walls, with little short steps so as not to be seen and recognized; and all day and every day with their hands tied, because if the doctor unties them, they will begin to scratch their mons veneris till the blood comes, as if they had a herd of lice there at pasture.
Â
This was the son of a Luchese emigrant.
He had lost his reason in an American forest, and lost his way home. He made friends with the apes in the forest, eating nuts and wild fruit. He slept in the trees for fear of snakes, he became a thin ape with long nails and a hairy face. But carnivorous teeth wanted meat. Therefore in bad weather he ate the carcasses killed and left by the other wild animals.
He was found by relatives, peasants near the forest. Recognized, captured, like a wild animal he tried to bite them, refused food, let out guttural howls like a lion.
Thus he was brought back to his native country, and my grandfather knew him in the days of his adventure.
I followed him step by step on his return voyage. He followed, he began to call his father,
Â
Generous, impatient outbursts of that blond young fellow, all eyes and sinews of steel, jammed into a straitjacket near my grandfatherâs bed in the first days: Near the big window . . .
He SAW her, he leapt up to go to her, and she always turned off toward the shrubbery and didnât see him. And didnât see his chained love, and he was tied up by his rival who wanted to steal her from him . . .
But who couldnât because now he had written to the queen, and she will come with coach and footmen and maid servants to free him.
But in the meanwhile she has turned off by the myrtles and donât know this. Let the queen come and she will fix it O.K.
It grows dark and she is still there by the standing still.
Perhaps she is chained and donât hear, and donât see her lover behind the barred window, in pain, crying out, and making signs. But he canât call her by name because her name is made up of letters that arenât in the alphabet any longer.
And the women that so terrified me in my grandfatherâs stories,
women turned into mooing buffaloes in bestial conjunctions in the marshes of the maremma. I can still see them going on all fours prodded on by pock-marked guardians in white overalls.
And the others that tear off their clothes without knowing why, and have lost all shame and talk excitedly with the men without suspicion of sex, and at night roll up in the moonlight like hedgehogs in underbrush.
Violent men that had killed many kings of the earth so that mankind might be sated with goods, who support your chains with pride, and shake every now and again and tug at the straps that bind you. To run again to your place of combat in the world, shoving it along with mighty heaves so that it will revolve more quickly. Beautiful and terrible your bloody fury! How many times have you slept with me on my cot, with the few coverlets in those long winter nights.
Donât kill me. I am not a kingâs son.
And I would wake up and think of the sons of kings born with such cruel destinies. One does not know why God puts so heavy a burden on their shoulders.
And those women huddled weeping on the ground from morning till evening.
Undone, because they have forgotten, lost something they can not find again.
And they bend over, opening their eyes wide and full of tears. These
lanterns lit on a rainy night, to hunt in the corners, in the cracks of the pavement, in the chinks of the wall.
They have lost something. What have they lost? They wander about sobbing like marmosets, souls in purgatory paying their sins, seventy years for each lie.
And look at the doctors with eyes half shut, leering at the other women of whom they are jealous. They walk along scraping the walls, with little short steps so as not to be seen and recognized; and all day and every day with their hands tied, because if the doctor unties them, they will begin to scratch their mons veneris till the blood comes, as if they had a herd of lice there at pasture.
Â
This was the son of a Luchese emigrant.
He had lost his reason in an American forest, and lost his way home. He made friends with the apes in the forest, eating nuts and wild fruit. He slept in the trees for fear of snakes, he became a thin ape with long nails and a hairy face. But carnivorous teeth wanted meat. Therefore in bad weather he ate the carcasses killed and left by the other wild animals.
He was found by relatives, peasants near the forest. Recognized, captured, like a wild animal he tried to bite them, refused food, let out guttural howls like a lion.
Thus he was brought back to his native country, and my grandfather knew him in the days of his adventure.
I followed him step by step on his return voyage. He followed, he began to call his father,
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