Full text: The waves

same organs. He jibs if I keep him waiting for dinner. He 
mops and mows perpetually, pointing with his half-idiot 
gestures of greed and covetousness at what he desires. I 
assure you, I have great difficulty sometimes in controlling 
him. That man, the hairy, the ape-like, has contributed his 
part to my life. He has given a greener glow to green things, 
has held his torch with its red. flames, its thick and smarting 
smoke, behind every leaf. He has lit up the cool garden even. 
He has brandished his torch in murky by-streets where girls 
suddenly seem to shine with a red and intoxicating trans- 
lucency. Oh, he has tossed his torch high! He has led me 
wild dances ! 
“ But no more. Now to-night, my body rises tier upon 
tier like some cool temple whose floor is strewn with carpets 
and murmurs rise and the altars stand smoking; but up 
above, here in my serene head, come only fine gusts of 
melody, waves of incense, while the lost dove wails, and 
the banners tremble above tombs, and the dark airs of mid- 
night shake trees outside the open windows. When I look 
down from this transcendency, how beautiful are even the 
crumbled relics of bread | What shapely spirals the peelings 
of pears make—how thin, and mottled like some sea-bird’s 
egg. Even the forks laid straight side by side appear lucid, 
logical, exact ; and the horns of the rolls which we have left 
are glazed, yellow-plated, hard. I could worship my hand 
even, with its fan of bones laced by blue mysterious veins 
and its astonishing look of aptness, suppleness and ability 
to cutl softly or suddenly crush—its infinite sensibility. 
“ Immeasurably receptive, holding everything, trembling 
with fullness, yet clear, contained—so my being seems, now 
that desire urges it no more out and away ; now that curiosity 
no longer dyes it a thousand colours. It lies deep, tideless, 
immune, now that he is dead, the man I called Bernard,’ 
the man who kept a book in his pocket in which he made 
notes—phrases for the moon, notes of features ; how people 
looked, turned, dropped their cigarette ends; under B, 
butterfly powder, under D, ways of naming death. But now 

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