visualize Brahms doing scales.
Well, and perhaps the prostitutes when he was still only twelve were dancing girls after all.
Such as Jane Avril, for instance.
I have no idea if Brahms ever visited in Paris while Jane Avril was dancing there.
Still, for some reason it strikes me as agreeable to think of Brahms as having had an affair with Jane Avril.
Or at least with Cleopatre or Gazelle or Mlle. Eglantine, who were some of the other dancers in Paris at that time.
How one remembers certain things is beyond me.
Perhaps Guy de Maupassant was rowing, when Brahms visited in Paris.
Once, Bertrand Russell took his pupil Ludwig Wittgenstein to watch Alfred North Whitehead row, at Cambridge. Wittgenstein became very angry with Bertrand Russell for having wasted his day.
In addition to remembering things that one does not know how one remembers, one would also appear to remember things that one has no idea how one knew to begin with.
Although perhaps Toulouse-Lautrec once handled my stick, even if Archimedes did not, having walked with a cane.
Then again, one of the popes made people burn most of what Sappho did write.
Doubtless my ankle was only sprained. Though it was swollen to twice its normal size.
Could that person T. E. Shaw have been a baseball player, perhaps?
And what have I been saying that has now made me think about Achilles again?
Now is perhaps not the correct word in any case.
By which I mean that I was undeniably thinking about Achilles at the moment when I started to type that sentence, but was no longer thinking about him by the time I had finished it.
One allows one's self to finish such sentences, of course. Even if by the time one has managed to indicate that one is thinking about one thing, one has actually begun thinking about another.
What happened after I started to write about Achilles was that halfway through the sentence I began to think about a cat, instead.
The cat I began to think about instead was the cat outside of the broken window in the room next to this one, at which the tape frequently scratches when there is a breeze.
Which is to say that I was not actually thinking about a cat either, there being no cat except insofar as the sound of the scratching reminds me of one.
As there were no coins on the floor of Rembrandt's studio, except insofar as the configuration of the pigment reminded Rembrandt of them.
As there was, or is, no person at the window in the painting of this house.
As for that matter there is not even a house in the painting of this house, should one wish to carry the matter that far.
Certain matters would appear to get carried certain distanceswhether one wishes them to or not, unfortunately.
Although perhaps this is the very subject of that other book, come to think about it. Quite possibly what I have taken to be a book about baseball is actually some sort of scholarly speculation about there having been no grass where people played baseball except insofar as the people playing baseball believed that there was.
At first glance one would scarcely have expected Wuthering Heights to be a book about windows, either.
Though it remains a fact that there was once some very real grass that had been mowed at the side of this house.
As can be readily verified by a glance at that same painting.
Though I am very likely now contradicting myself.
In either case the tape has now stopped scratching.
Nor am I thinking about a cat any longer.
Then again I certainly would have had to be thinking about one while I was typing that sentence, even though the sentence says just the opposite.
Surely one cannot type a sentence saying that one is not thinking about something without thinking about the very thing that one says one is not thinking about.
I believe I have only now noted this. Or something very much like this.
Possibly I should drop the subject.
Actually, all I had been thinking about in regard to Achilles was his heel.
Although I do not have any sort of
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