Nexus: The Rosy Crucifixion, Book 3
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do you want – the East of Xerxes or the East of Christ?” Alone – with eczema of the brain. Alone at last. How marvellous! Only it is not what I expected it to be. If only I were alone with God! Woof! Woof woof! Eyes closed, I summon her image. There it is, floating in the dark, a mask emerging from the spindrift: the Tilla Durieux bouche, like a bow; white, even teeth; eyes dark with mascara, the lids a viscous, glistening blue; hair streaming wild, black as ebony. The actress from the
pseudo-refined, such as morticians, lackeys, ministers of the gospel, major-domos. The way a certain nobody, when taken by surprise, threw back his head and whinnied, would stick in my crop long after I had ceased to remember his words and deeds. There were novelists, I discovered, who made a specialty of exploiting such idiosyncrasies, who thought nothing of resorting to a little trick like the whinnying of a horse when they wished to remind the reader of a character mentioned sixty pages back.
satisfy the lover or husband – or the poor invalid mother. Perhaps he was a better actor than either of us! Maybe – this was a random thought – maybe there had never passed a word between them about Europe. Maybe she was just determined to get there again, no matter how. Suddenly Stasia’s image floated before me. Strange, that not a word had ever been received from her! Surely she couldn’t still be wandering about in North Africa. Was she in Paris – waiting? Why not? It was simple enough to
we have but a semblance of life. We’re alive only in dreams. It’s the mind in us that refuses to be killed off. The mind is tough – and far more mysterious than the wildest dream of theologians. It may well be that there is nothing but mind…not the little mind we know, to be sure, but the great Mind in which we swim, the Mind which permeates the whole universe. Dostoievsky, let me remind you, had amazing insight not only into the soul of man but into the mind and spirit of the universe. That’s
happening on the stage. In less than no time Stasia had made a recognizable portrait of me – on the wall which I was facing. It was in the image of a Chinese mandarin, garbed in a Chinese blue jacket, which emphasized the austere, sage-like expression I had evidently assumed. Mona thought it ravishing. She also commended me in a motherly way for sitting so still and for being so sweet to Stasia. She had always known we would one day get to know one another, become firm friends. And so on. She