resignation, acceptance, humility, passivity, when they find them selves in a trap, they do not know how to defeat it;
they only know how to grab a revolver or a knife and kill.”
“No one searches for reasons, no one prods?”
“Except me. And I will be punished for it.
Whoever tampers with this empathy with animals, this osmosis with light, this
absence of thought, is always made the victim of people’s hatred of awareness.”
“You have anesthetics for physical pain. Why
not for anxiety, then?”
“Because they do not care.”
There was a masquerade dance on the Mexican
general’s yacht.
From its decks fireworks exploded into the bay,
and the rowboats which took the guests up to the ladder had to sail
courageously through a shower of comet tails.
The Mexican general was the only one who was
not disguised. He awaited his guests at the top of the ladder, greeted them
with an embrace; his circumference was so wide that all Lillian was able to
kiss in response to his embrace was one of the medals on his chest.
From behind masks, feathers, paint, spangles,
all Lillian could see at first were eyes, sea-eyes, animal-eyes, earth-eyes,
eyes of precious stones. Fixed, mobile, fluid, some were easily caught by a
stare, others escaped all but a fleeting spark.
Lillian recognized the Doctor only when he
spoke. He was costumed as an Aztec warrior, face and body painted, and he was
carrying a sharp-pointed lance, with sharp arrows slung across his ck. It was
his turn to inflict deep wounds, like those he was weary of healing. That night
his appearance forbade all women to rest their heads upon his shoulder and
confess their difficulties. Before they crumpled into wailing children, he
would challenge the potential mistress.
When Diana arrived with Christmas walking in
her shadow, the Doctor said: “When patients suffer from malnutrition of the
senses, I send them to Diana.”
Diana, her head emerging from the empty picture
frame, wearing a violet face mask and her hair covered with sea weed, was
dancing with Christmas.
Christmas was dressed quite fittingly, as a man
from another planet, but such affirmation of distance did not discourage Diana.
She kissed him, and the frame fell around both their shoulders like a life belt
to keep them afloat on the unfamiliar sea of the senses, its swell heightened
by the jazz and the fireworks.
A couple was leaning over the railing, and
Lillian could hear the woman say: “Even if you don’t mean it, just for tonight,
say you love me. I won’t ever remind you of it; I will not see you again, but
just for tonight say you love me, say you love me.”
Would such a guarantee of freedom from
responsibility make of any man a lover and a poet? Bring about a lyrical
confession? In the green flare of a fireworks fountain, Lillian saw that the
man hesitated to create illusion even for one night, and she thought, “He
should have been disguised as the greatest of all misers!”
The woman in quest of illusion disappeared
among the dancers.
Everyone was already dancing the intricate
patterns of the mambo, which not only set bodies in motion but generated words
which would not have been said without such propulsions.
The Doctor was transformed by his disguise;
Lillian was astonished to watch him in the role of ruthless lover who would
deal only in wounds in the war of love, none of the consolations. He had
separated Diana from Christmas with some ironic remarks, and caused another
woman to sit alone among the cordage piled in circles on the deck like sleeping
anacondas.
It was not only the champagne Lillian drank, it
was the softness of the night so palpable that when she opened her mouth she
felt as if she had swallowed some of it: it descended into her arteries like a
new drug not yet discovered by the alchemists. She swallowed the softness, and
then swallowed the showers of light from the fireworks too, and felt illumined
by them. It was not only the champagne, but the merry cries of
they only know how to grab a revolver or a knife and kill.”
“No one searches for reasons, no one prods?”
“Except me. And I will be punished for it.
Whoever tampers with this empathy with animals, this osmosis with light, this
absence of thought, is always made the victim of people’s hatred of awareness.”
“You have anesthetics for physical pain. Why
not for anxiety, then?”
“Because they do not care.”
There was a masquerade dance on the Mexican
general’s yacht.
From its decks fireworks exploded into the bay,
and the rowboats which took the guests up to the ladder had to sail
courageously through a shower of comet tails.
The Mexican general was the only one who was
not disguised. He awaited his guests at the top of the ladder, greeted them
with an embrace; his circumference was so wide that all Lillian was able to
kiss in response to his embrace was one of the medals on his chest.
From behind masks, feathers, paint, spangles,
all Lillian could see at first were eyes, sea-eyes, animal-eyes, earth-eyes,
eyes of precious stones. Fixed, mobile, fluid, some were easily caught by a
stare, others escaped all but a fleeting spark.
Lillian recognized the Doctor only when he
spoke. He was costumed as an Aztec warrior, face and body painted, and he was
carrying a sharp-pointed lance, with sharp arrows slung across his ck. It was
his turn to inflict deep wounds, like those he was weary of healing. That night
his appearance forbade all women to rest their heads upon his shoulder and
confess their difficulties. Before they crumpled into wailing children, he
would challenge the potential mistress.
When Diana arrived with Christmas walking in
her shadow, the Doctor said: “When patients suffer from malnutrition of the
senses, I send them to Diana.”
Diana, her head emerging from the empty picture
frame, wearing a violet face mask and her hair covered with sea weed, was
dancing with Christmas.
Christmas was dressed quite fittingly, as a man
from another planet, but such affirmation of distance did not discourage Diana.
She kissed him, and the frame fell around both their shoulders like a life belt
to keep them afloat on the unfamiliar sea of the senses, its swell heightened
by the jazz and the fireworks.
A couple was leaning over the railing, and
Lillian could hear the woman say: “Even if you don’t mean it, just for tonight,
say you love me. I won’t ever remind you of it; I will not see you again, but
just for tonight say you love me, say you love me.”
Would such a guarantee of freedom from
responsibility make of any man a lover and a poet? Bring about a lyrical
confession? In the green flare of a fireworks fountain, Lillian saw that the
man hesitated to create illusion even for one night, and she thought, “He
should have been disguised as the greatest of all misers!”
The woman in quest of illusion disappeared
among the dancers.
Everyone was already dancing the intricate
patterns of the mambo, which not only set bodies in motion but generated words
which would not have been said without such propulsions.
The Doctor was transformed by his disguise;
Lillian was astonished to watch him in the role of ruthless lover who would
deal only in wounds in the war of love, none of the consolations. He had
separated Diana from Christmas with some ironic remarks, and caused another
woman to sit alone among the cordage piled in circles on the deck like sleeping
anacondas.
It was not only the champagne Lillian drank, it
was the softness of the night so palpable that when she opened her mouth she
felt as if she had swallowed some of it: it descended into her arteries like a
new drug not yet discovered by the alchemists. She swallowed the softness, and
then swallowed the showers of light from the fireworks too, and felt illumined
by them. It was not only the champagne, but the merry cries of
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