Портрет художника в юності

           TherecametohismindacuriousphrasefromCORNELIUSALAPIDEwhichsaidthatthelicebornofhumansweatwerenotcreatedbyGodwiththeotheranimalsonthesixthday.Buttheticklingoftheskinofhisneckmadehismindrawandred.Thelifeofhisbody,illclad,illfed,louse-eaten,madehimclosehiseyelidsinasuddenspasmofdespairandinthedarknesshesawthebrittlebrightbodiesoflicefallingfromtheairandturningoftenastheyfell.Yes,anditwasnotdarknessthatfellfromtheair.Itwasbrightness.

           Brightnessfallsfromtheair.

           HehadnotevenrememberedrightlyNash’sline.Alltheimagesithadawakenedwerefalse.Hismindbredvermin.Histhoughtswerelicebornofthesweatofsloth.

           Hecamebackquicklyalongthecolonnadetowardsthegroupofstudents.Wellthen,lethergoandbedamnedtoher!Shecouldlovesomecleanathletewhowashedhimselfeverymorningtothewaistandhadblackhaironhischest.Lether.

           Cranlyhadtakenanotherdriedfigfromthesupplyinhispocketandwaseatingitslowlyandnoisily.Templesatonthepedimentofapillar,leaningback,hiscappulleddownonhissleepyeyes.Asquatyoungmancameoutoftheporch,aleatherportfoliotuckedunderhisarmpit.Hemarchedtowardsthegroup,strikingtheflagswiththeheelsofhisbootsandwiththeferruleofhisheavyumbrella.Then,raisingtheumbrellainsalute,hesaidtoall:

           —Goodevening,sirs.