Волны

           Wavesofhands,hesitationsatstreetcorners,someonedroppingacigaretteintothegutter--allarestories.Butwhichisthetruestory?ThatIdonotknow.HenceIkeepmyphraseshunglikeclothesinacupboard,waitingforsomeonetowearthem.Thuswaiting,thusspeculating,makingthisnoteandthenanother,Idonotclingtolife.Ishallbebrushedlikeabeefromasunflower.Myphilosophy,alwaysaccumulating,wellingupmomentbymoment,runslikequicksilveradozenwaysatonce.ButLouis,wild-eyedbutsevere,inhisattic,inhisoffice,hasformedunalterableconclusionsuponthetruenatureofwhatistobeknown.’

           ’Itbreaks,’saidLouis,’thethreadItrytospin;yourlaughterbreaksit,yourindifference,alsoyourbeauty.Jinnybrokethethreadwhenshekissedmeinthegardenyearsago.TheboastingboysmockedmeatschoolformyAustralianaccentandbrokeit."Thisisthemeaning,"Isay;andthenstartwithapang--vanity."Listen,"Isay,"tothenightingale,whosingsamongthetramplingfeet;theconquestsandmigrations.Believe--"andthenamtwitchedasunder.OverbrokentilesandsplintersofglassIpickmyway.Differentlightsfall,makingtheordinaryleopardspottedandstrange.Thismomentofreconciliation,whenwemeettogetherunited,thiseveningmoment,withitswineandshakingleaves,andyouthcomingupfromtheriverinwhiteflannels,carryingcushions,istomeblackwiththeshadowsofdungeonsandthetorturesandinfamiespractisedbymanuponman.