His voice israucous, scraping, booming, a heavy blunt weapon that wedges
its waythrough flesh and bone and cartilage.
    Boris calls medown to be introduced. He is rubbing his hands, like a
pawnbroker. Theyare talking about a story Mr. Wren wrote, a story about a
spavined horse.
    "But I thoughtMr. Wren was a painter? "
    "To be sure," says Boris, with a twinkle in his eye. "but in the
wintertime he writes.And he writes well. . . remarkably well. "
    I try to induceMr. Wren to talk. to say something, anything, to talk
about the spavinedhorse, if necessary. But Mr. Wren is almost inarticulate.
When he essaysto speak of those dreary months with the pen he becomes
unintelligible.Months and months he spends before setting a word to paper.
(And thereare only three months of winter! ) What does he cogitate all those
monthsand months of winter? So help me God, I can't see this guy as a
writer.Yet Mrs. Wren says that when he sits down to it the stuff just
poursout.
    The talk drifts.It is difficult to follow Mr. Wren's mind because he
says nothing. Hethinks as he goes along _ so Mrs. Wren puts it. Mrs. Wren
puts everythingabout Mr. Wren in the loveliest light. "He thinks as he goes
along"- very charming, charming indeed, as Borowski would say, but
reallyvery painful, particularly when the thinker is nothing but a
spavinedhorse.
    Boris hands memoney to buy liquor. Going for the liquor I am already
intoxicated.I know just how begin when I get back to the house. Walking down
thestreet it commences, the grand speech inside me that's gurgling likeMrs.
Wren's loose laugh. Seems to me she had a slight edge on already.Listens
beautifully when she's tight. Coming out of the wine shop Ihear the urinal
gurgling. Everything is loose and splashy. I want Mrs.Wren to listen. . . .
    Boris is rubbinghis hands again. Mr. Wren is still stuttering and
spluttering. I havea bottle between my legs and I'm shoving the corkscrew in.
Mrs. Wrenhas her mouth parted expectantly. The wine is splashing between my
legs.the sun is splashing through the bay window, and inside my veins
thereis a bubble and splash of a thousand crazy things that commence to
gushout of me now pell-mell. I'm telling them everything that comes to
mind.everything that was bottledup inside me and which Mrs. Wren's loose
laugh has somehow released.With that bottle between my legs and the sun
splashing through the windowI experience once again the splendor of those
miserable days when Ifirst arrived in Paris, a bewildered, poverty-stricken
individual whohaunted the streets like a ghost at a banquet. Everything
comes backto me in a rush _ the toilets that wouldn't work, the prince who
shinedmy shoes, the Cinema Splendide where I slept on the patron's
overcoat,the bars in the window, the feeling of suffocation, the fat
cockroaches,the drinking and carousing that went on between times. Rose
Cannaqueand Naples dying in the sunlight. Dancing the streets on an empty
bellyand now and then calling on strange people _ Madame De-lorme, for
instance.How I ever got to Madame Delorme's, I can't imagine any more. But
Igot there, got inside somehow, past the butler, past the maid with
herlittle white apron, got right inside the palace with my corduroy
trousersand my hunting jacket _ and not a button on my fly. Even now I can
tasteagain the golden ambiance of that room where Madame Delorme sat upona
throne in her mannish rig, the goldfish in the bowls, the maps ofthe ancient
world, the beautifully bound books; I can feel again herheavy hand resting
upon my shoulder, frightening me a little with herheavy Lesbian air. More
comfortable down below in that thick stew pouringinto the Gare St. Lazare,
the whores in the doorways, seltzer bottleson every table; a thick tide of
semen flooding the gutters. Nothingbetter between five and seven than to be
pushed around in that throng,to follow a leg or a beautiful bust, to move
along with the tide andeverything whirling in your brain. A weird sort of
contentment in thosedays. No appointments, no invitations for dinner. no
program, no dough.The golden period, when I had not a single friend. Each
morning thedreary walk to the American Express, and each morning the
inevitableanswer from the clerk. Dashing here and there like a bedbug,
gatheringbutts now and then. sometimes furtively, sometimes brazenly;
sittingdown on a bench and squeezing my guts to stop the gnawing, or
walkingthrough the Jardin des Tuileries and getting an erection looking
atthe dumb statues. Or wandering along the Seine at night, wandering
andwandering, and going mad with the beauty of it, the trees leaning to.the
broken images in the water, the rush of the currentu nderthe bloody lights
of the bridges, the women sleeping in doorways, sleepingon newspapers,
sleeping in the rain; everywhere the musty porches ofthe cathedrals and
beggars and lice and old hags full of St. Vitus'dance; pushcarts stacked up
like wine barrels in the side streets, thesmell of berries in the market
place and the old church surrounded withvegetables and blue arc lights, the
gutters slippery with garbage andwomen in satin pumps staggering through the
filth and vermin at theend of an allnight souse. The Place St. Sulpice. so
quiet and deserted,where toward midnight there came every night the woman
with the bustedumbrella and the crazy veil;
    every night sheslept there on a bench under her torn umbrella, the ribs
hanging down,her dress turning green, her bony fingers and the odor of decay
oozingfrom her body; and in the morning I'd be sitting there myself, takinga
quiet snooze in the sunshine, cursing the goddamned pigeons gatheringup the
crumbs everywhere. St. Sulpice! The fat belfries, the garishposters over the
door, the candles flaming inside. The Square so belovedof Anatole France,
with that drone and buzz from the altar, the splashof the fountain, the
pigeons cooing, the crumbs disappearing like magicand only a dull rumbling
in the hollow of the guts. Here I would sitday after day thinking of
Germaine and that dirty little street nearthe Bastille where she lived, and
that buzz-buzz going on behind thealtar, the buses whizzing by. the sun
beating down into the asphaltand the asphalt working into me and Germaine,
into the asphalt and allParis in the big fat belfries.
    And it was downthe Rue Bonaparte that only a year before Mona and I used
to walk everynight, after we had taken leave of Borowski. St. Sulpice not
meaningmuch to me then, nor anything in Paris. Washed out with talk. Sick
offaces. Fed up with cathedrals and squares and menageries and what
not.Picking up a book in the red bedroom and the cane chair uncomfortable;
tired of sitting on my ass all day long, tired of red wallpaper, tiredof
seeing so many people jabbering away about nothing. The red bedroomand the
trunk always open; her gowns lying about in a delirium of disorder.The red
bedroom with my galoshes and canes, the notebooks I never touched,the
manuscripts lying cold and dead. Paris! Meaning the Cafe Select,the Dome,
the Flea Market, the American Express. Paris! Meaning Borowski'scanes.
Borowski's hats,

    Borowski's gouaches,Borowski's prehistoric fish _ and prehistoric jokes.
In that Paris of' only one night stands out in my memory _ the night before
sailingfor America. A rare night, with Borowski slightly pickled and a
littledisgusted with me because I'm dancing with every slut in the place.But
we're leaving in the morning! That's what I tell every cunt I grabhold of _
leaving in the morning! That's what I'm telling theblonde with agate-colored
eyes. And while I'm telling her she takesmy hand and squeezes it between her
legs. In the lavatory I stand beforethe bowl with a tremendous erection; it
seems light and heavy at thesame time. like a piece of lead with wings on it.
And while I'm standingthere like that two cunts sail in _ Americans. I greet
them cordially,prick in hand. They give me a wink and pass on. In the
vestibule, asI'm buttoning my fly, I notice one of them waiting for her
friend tocome out of the can. The music is still playing and maybe Monall
becoming to fetch me, or Borowski with his gold-knobbed cane, but I'min her
arms now and she has hold of me and I don't care who comes orwhat happens.
We wriggle into the cabinet and there I stand her up,slap up against the wall,
and I try to get it into her but it won'twork and so we sit down on the seat
and try it that way but it won'twork either. No matter how we try it it
won't work. And all the whileshe's got hold of my prick, she's clutching it
like a lifesaver, butit's no use, we're too hot, too eager. The music is
still playing andso we waltz out of the cabinet into the vestibule again and
as we'redancing there in the shithouse I come all over her beautiful gown
andshe's sore as hell about it. I stumble back to the table and
there'sBorowski with his ruddy face and Mona with her disapproving eye.
AndBorowski says "Let's all go to Brussels tomorrow. " and we agree, andwhen
we get back to the hotel I vomit all over the place, in the bed,in the
washbowl, over the suits and gowns and the galoshes and canesand the
notebooks I never touched and the manuscripts cold and dead.
    A few monthslater. The same hotel, the same room. We look out on the
courtyard wherethe bicycles are parked, and there is the little room up above,
underthe attic, where some smart young Alee played the phonograph all
daylong and repeated clever little things at the top of his voice. I say"we"
but I'm getting ahead of myself. because Mona has been away a longtime and
it's just today that I'm meetingher at the Gare St. Lazare. Toward evening
I'm standing there with myface squeezed between the bars, but there's no
Mon-a, and I read thecable over again but it doesn't help any. I go back to
the Quarter andjust the same I put away a hearty meal. Strolling past the
Dome a littlelater suddenly I see a pale, heavy face and burning eyes _ and
the littlevelvet suit that I always adore because under the soft velvet
therewere always her warm breasts, the marble legs. cool, firm. muscular.She
rises up out of a sea of faces and embraces me, embraces me passionately_ a
thousand eyes, noses, fingers, legs, bottles, windows, purses, saucersall
glaring at us and we in each other's arm oblivious. I sit down besideher and
she talks " a flood of talk. Wild consumptive notes of hysteria,perversion,
leprosy. I hear not a word because she is beautiful andI love her and now I
am happy and willing to die.
    We walk downthe Rue du Chateau, looking for Eugene. Walk over the
railroad bridgewhere I used to watch the trains pulling out and feel all
sick insidewondering where the hell she could be. Everything soft and
enchantingas we walk over the bridge. Smoke coming up between our legs, the
trackscreaking, semaphores in our blood. I feel her body close to mine _
allmine now _ and I stop to rub my hands over the warm velvet.
Everythingaround us is crumbling, crumbling and the warm body under the warm
velvetis aching for me. . . .
    Back in the verysame room and fifty francs to the good, thanks to Eugene.
I look outon the court but the phonograph is silent. The trunk is open and
herthings are lying around everywhere just as before. She lies down onthe
bed with her clothes on. Once. twice, three times, four times. .. I'm afraid
shell go mad. . . in bed, under the blankets, how goodto feel her body again!
But for how long? Will it last this time? AlreadyI have a presentiment that
it won't.
    She talks tome so feverishly _ as if there will be no tomorrow. "Be quiet,
Mona!Just look at me. . . don't talk! " Finally she drops oft andI pull my
arm from under her. My eyes close. Her body is there besideme. . . it will
be there till morning surely. ... It was in FebruaryI pulled out of the
harbor in a blinding snowstorm. The last glimpseI had of her was in the
window waving goodbye to me.A man standing on the other side of the street,
at the corner. his hatpulled down over his eyes, his jowls resting on his
lapels. A fetuswatching me. A fetus with a cigar in its mouth. Mona at the
window wavinggoodbye. White heavy face, hair streaming wild. And now it is a
heavybedroom, breathing regularly through the gills, sap still oozing
frombetween her legs, a warm feline odor and her hair in my mouth. My
eyesare closed. We breathe warmly into each other's mouth. Close
together,America three thousand miles away. I never want to see it again.
Tohave her here in bed with me, breathing on me, her hair in my mouth_ I
count that something of a miracle. Nothing can happen now till morning.. . .
    I wake from adeep slumber to look at her. A pale light is trickling in.
I look ather beautiful wild hair. I feel something crawling down my neck. I
lookat her again, closely. Her hair is alive. I pull back the sheet _ moreof
them. They are swarming over the pillow.
    It is a littleafter daybreak. We pack hurriedly and sneak out of the
hotel. The cafesare still closed. We walk, and as we walk we scratch
ourselves. Theday opens in milky whiteness, streaks of salmon-pink sky,
snails leavingtheir shells. Paris. Paris. Everything happens here. Old,
crumblingwalls and the pleasant sound of water running in the urinals. Men
lickingtheir mustaches at the bar. Shutters going up with a bang and
littlestreams purling in the gutters. Amer Picon in huge scarlet
letters.Zigzag. Which way will we go and why or where or what?
    Mona is hungry,her dress is thin. Nothing but evening wraps, bottles of
perfume, barbaricearrings, bracelets, depilatories. We sit down in a
billiard parloron the Avenue du Maine and order hot coffee. The toilet is
out of order.We shall have to sit some time before we can go to another hotel.
Meanwhilewe pick bedbugs out of each other's hair. Nervous. Mona is losing
hertemper. Must have a bath. Must have this. Must have that. Must, must,must.
. .
    "How much moneyhave you left?"
    Money! Forgotall about that.
    Hotel des Etats-Unis.An ascenseur. We go to bed in broad daylight. When
we get upit is dark and the first thing to do is to raise enough dough to
senda cable to America. A cable to the fetus

    with the longjuicy cigar in his mouth. Meanwhile there is the Spanish
woman on theBoulevard Raspail _ she's always good for a warm meal. By
morning somethingwill happen. At least we're going to bed together. No more
bedbugs now.The rainy season has commenced. The sheets are immaculate. . . .
 A
    new life openingup for me at the Villa Borghese. Only ten o'clock and we
have alreadyhad breakfast and been out for a walk. We have an Elsa here with
usnow. "Step softly for a few days. " cautions Boris.
    The day beginsgloriously: a bright sky. a fresh wind, the houses newly
washed. Onour way to the Post Office Boris and I discussed the book. The
LastBook _ which is going to be written anonymously.
    A new day isbeginning. I felt it this morning as we stood before one of
Dufresne'sglistening canvases, a sort of dejeuner intime in the
thirteenthcentury, sans vin. A fine, fleshy nude. solid, vibrant, pinkas a
fingernail, with glistening billows of flesh; all the
secondarycharacteristics, and a few of the primary. A body that sings, that
hasthe moisture of dawn. A still life, only nothing is still, nothing
deadhere. The table creaks with food; it is so heavy it is sliding out ofthe
frame. A thirteenth century repast _ with all the jungle notes thathe has
memorized so well. A family of gazelles and zebras nipping thefronds of the
palms.
    And now we haveElsa. She was playing for us this morning while we were
in bed. Stepsoftly for a few days. . . . Good! Elsa is the maid and I am
theguest. And Boris is the big cheese. A new drama is beginning. I'm
laughingto myself as I write this. He knows what is going to happen, that
lynx,Boris. He has a nose for things too. Step softly. . . .
    Boris is on pinsand needles. At any moment now his wife may appear on
the scene. Sheweighs well over pounds, that wife of his. And Boris is only a
handful.There you have the situation. He tries to explain it to me on our
wayhome at night. It is so tragic and so ridiculous at the same time thatI
am obliged to stop now and then and laugh in his face. "Why do youlaugh so?
" he says gently, and then he commences himself, with thatwhimpering,
hysterical note in his voice, like a helpless wretch whorealizes suddenly
that no matter how many frock coats he puts on hewill never make a man.He
wants to run away, to take a new name. "She can have everything,that cow. if
only she leaves me alone, " he whines. But first the apartmenthas to be
rented, and the deeds signed, and a thousand other detailsfor which his
frock coat will come in handy. But the size of her! _that's what really
worries him. If we were to find her suddenly standingon the doorstep when we
arrive he would faint _ that's how much he respectsher!
    And so we'vegot to go easy with Elsa for a while. Elsa is only there to
make breakfast_ and to show the apartment.
    But Elsa is alreadyundermining me. That German blood. Those melancholy
songs. Coming downthe stairs this morning, with the fresh coffee in my
nostrils, I washumming softly. . . . "_ war' so schon gewesen. " pot
breakfast,that. And in a little while the English boy upstairs with his
Bach.As Elsa says _ "he needs a woman. " And Elsa needs something too. Ican
feel it. I didn't say anything to Boris about it, but while he wascleaning
his teeth this morning Elsa was giving me an earful about Berlin,about the
women who look so attractive from behind, and when they turnround _ wow,
syphilis.'
    It seems to methat Elsa looks at me rather wistfully. Something left
over from thebreakfast table. This afternoon we were writing, back to back.
in thestudio. She had begun a letter to her lover who is in Italy. The
machinegot jammed. Boris had gone to look at a cheap room he will take as
soonas the apartment is rented. There was nothing for it but to make loveto
Elsa. She wanted it. And yet I felt a little sorry for her. She hadonly
written the first line to her lover _ I read it out of the cornerof my eye
as I bent over her. But it couldn't be helped. That damnedGerman music, so
melancholy, so sentimental. It undermined me. And thenher beady little eyes,
so hot and sorrowful at the same time.
    After it wasover I asked her to play something for me. She's a musician,
Elsa. eventhough it sounded like broken pots and skulls clanking. She was
weeping,too, as she played. I don't blame her. Everywhere the same thing,
shesays. Everywhere a man, and then she has to leave, and then there'san
abortion and then a new job and then another man and nobody givesa fuck
about her except to use her. All this after she's played Schumannfor me _
Schumann, that slobbery, sentimental German bastard! SomehowI feel sorry as
hell forher and yet I don't give a damn. A cunt who can play as she does
oughtto have better sense than be tripped up by every guy with a big putzwho
happens to come along. But that Schumann gets into my blood. She'sstill
sniffling, Elsa but my mind is iar away. I'm thinking of Taniaand how she
claws away at her adagio. I'm thinking of lots of thingsthat are gone and
buried. Thinking of a summer afternoon in Greenpointwhen the Germans were
romping over Belgium and we had not yet lost enoughmoney to be concerned
over the rape of a neutral country. A time whenwe were still innocent enough
to listen to poets and to sit around atable in the twilight rapping for
departed spirits. All that afternoonand evening the atmosphere is saturated
with German music; the wholeneighborhood is German, more German even than
Germany. We were broughtup on Schumann and Hugo Wolf and sauerkraut and
kummel and potato dumplings.Toward evening we're sitting around a big table
with the curtains drawnand some fool two-headed wench is rapping for Jesus
Christ. We're holdinghands under the table and the dame next to me has two
fingers in myfly. And finally we lie on the floor, behind the piano, while
someonesings a dreary song. The air is stifling and her breath is boozy.
Thepedal is moving up and down, stiffly, automatically, a crazy,
futilemovement, like a tower of dung that takes twenty-seven years to
buildbut keeps perfect time. I pull her over me with the sounding board inmy
ears; the room is dark and the carpet is sticky with the kiimmelthat has
been spilled about. Suddenly it seems as if the dawn were coming:it is like
water purling over ice and the ice is blue with a risingmist, glaciers sunk
in emerald green, chamois and antelope, golden groupers,sea cows mooching
along and the amber jack leaping over the Arctic rim.. . .
    Elsa is sittingin my lap. Her eyes are like little bellybuttons. I look
at her largemouth, so wet and glistening, and I cover it. She is humming now.
..."Es war' so schon gewesen...." Ah, Elsa, you don't know yet whatthat
means to me, your Trompeter van Sackingen. German SingingSocieties, Schwaben
Hall, the Turn-verein... links urn, rechts urn.. _ and then a whack over the
ass with the end of a rope.
    Ah, the Germans!They take you all over like an omnibus. They give you
indigestion. Inthe same night one cannot visit the morgue,the infirmary, the
zoo, the signs of the zodiac, the limbos of philosophy,the caves of
epistemology. the arcana of Freud and Stekel. . . . Onthe merry-go-round one
doesn't get anywhere, whereas with the Germansone can go from Vega to Lope
de Vega, all in one night, and come awayas foolish as Parsifal.
    As I say, theday began gloriously. It was only this morning that I
became consciousagain of this physical Paris of which I have been unaware
for weeks.Perhaps it is because the book has begun to grow inside me. I am
carryingit around with me everywhere. I walk through the streets big with
childand the cops escort me across the street. Women get up to offer me
theirseats. Nobody pushes me rudely any more. I am pregnant. I waddle
awkwardly,my big stomach pressed against the weight of the world.
    It was this morning,on our way to the Post Office, that we gave the book
its final imprimatur.We have evolved a new cosmogony of literature. Boris
and I. It is tobe a new Bible _ The Last Book. All those who have anything
tosay will say it here _ anonymously. We will exhaust the age.After us not
another book _ not for a generation, at least. Heretoforewe had been digging
in the dark, with nothing but instinct to guideus. Now we shall have a
vessel in which to pour the vital fluid, a bombwhich, when we throw it, will
set off the world. We shall put into ite-nough to give the writers of
tomorrow their plots, their dramas, theirpoems, their myths, their sciences.
The world will be able to feed onit for a thousand years to come. It is
colossal in its pretentiousness.The thought of it almost shatters us.
    For a hundredyears or more the world, our world, has been dying. And not
oneman. in these last hundred years or so, has been crazy enough to puta
bomb up the asshole of creation and set it off. The world is rottingaway,
dying piecemeal. But it needs the coup de grace, it needsto be blown to
smithereens. Not one of us is intact, and yet we havein us all the
continents and the seas between the continents and thebirds of the air. We
are going to put it down _ the evolution of thisworld which has died but
which has not been buried. We are swimmingon the face of time and all else
has drowned, is drowning, or will drown.It will be enormous, the Book. There
will be oceans of space in whichto move about, to perambulate, to sing, to
dance, to climb, to bathe,to leap somersaults, towhine, to rape. to murder.
A cathedral, a veritable cathedral, in thebuilding of which everybody will
assist who has lost his identity. Therewill be masses for the dead, prayers,
confessions, hymns, a moaningand a chattering, a sort of murderous
insouciance; there will be rosewindows and gargoyles and acolytes and
pallbearers. You can bring yourhorses in and gallop through the aisles. You
can butt your head againstthe walls _ they won't give. You can pray in any
language you choose,or you can curl up outside and go to sleep. It will last
a thousandyears, at least, this cathedral, and there will be no replica, for
thebuilders will be dead and the formula too. We will have postcards madeand
organize tours. We will build a town around it and set up a freecommune. We
have no need for genius _ genius is dead. We have need forstrong hands, for
spirits who are willing to give up the ghost and puton flesh. . . .
    The day is movingalong at a fine tempo. I am up on the balcony at
Tania's place. Thedrama is going on down below in the drawing room. The
dramatist is sickand from above his scalp looks more scabrous than ever. His
hair ismade of straw. His ideas are straw. His wife too is straw, though
stilla little damp. The whole house is made of straw. Here I am up on
thebalcony, waiting for Boris to arrive. My last problem _ breakfast_ is gone.
I have simplified everything. If there are any new problemsI can carry them
in my rucksack, along with my dirty wash. I am throwingaway all my sous.
What need have I for money? I am a writing machine.The last screw has been
added. The thing flows. Between me and the machinethere is no estrangement.
I am the machine. ...
    They have nottold me yet what the new drama is about, but I can sense it.
They aretrying to get rid of me. Yet here I am for my dinner, even a
littleearlier than they expected. I have informed them where to sit, whatto
do. I ask them politely if I shall be disturbing them, but what Ireally mean,
and they know it well, is _ will you be disturbing me?No, you blissful
cockroaches, you are not disturbing me. You are nourishingme. I see you
sitting there close together and I know there is a chasmbetween you. Your
nearness is the nearness of planets. I am the voidbetween you. If I
withdraw there will be no voidfor you to swim in.
    Tania is in ahostile mood _ I can feel it. She resents my being filled
with anythingbut herself. She knows by the very caliber of my excitement
that hervalue is reduced to zero. She knows that I did not come this
eveningto fertilize her. She knows there is something germinating inside
mewhich will destroy her. She is slow to realize, but she is realizingit. . .
    Sylvester looksmore content. He will embrace her this evening at the
dinner table.Even now he is reading my manuscript, preparing to inflame my
ego. toset my ego against hers.
    It will be astrange gathering this evening. The stage is being set. I
hear the tinkleof the glasses. The wine is being brought out. There will be
bumpersdowned and Sylvester who is ill will come out of his illness.
    It was only lastnight, at Cronstadt's, that we projected this setting.
It was ordainedthat the women must suffer, that off-stage there should be
more terrorand violence, more disasters, more suffering, more woe and misery.
    It is no accidentthat propels people like us to Paris. Paris is simply
an artificialstage, a revolving stage that permits the spectator to glimpse
all phasesof the conflict. Of itself Paris initiates no dramas. They are
begunelsewhere. Paris is simply an obstetrical instrument that tears
theliving embryo from the womb and puts it in the incubator. Paris is
thecradle of artificial births. Rocking here in the cradle each one
slipsback into his soil: one dreams back to Berlin, New York. Chicago,
Vienna,Minsk. Vienna is never more Vienna than in Paris. Everything is
raisedto apotheosis. The cradle gives up its babes and new ones take
theirplaces. You can read here on the walls where Zola lived and Balzac
andDante and Strindberg and everybody who ever was anything. Everyone
haslived here some time or other. Nobody dies here. . . .
    They are talkingdownstairs. Their language is symbolic. The world
"struggle" entersinto it. Sylvester, the sick dramatist, is saying: " I am
just readingthe Manifesto. " And Tania says
    "Whose?"Yes, Tania, I heard you. I am up here writing about you and you
divineit well. Speak more. that I may record you. For when we go totable I
shall not be able to make any notes. . . . Suddenly Tania remarks:"There is
no prominent hall in this place. "  Now what does that mean. if anything?
    They are puttingup pictures now. That, too, is to impress me. See, they
wish to say,we are at home here, living the conjugal life. Making the home
attractive.We will even argue a little about the pictures, for your
benefit.And Tania remarks again:
    "How the eyedeceives one! " Ah, Tania, what things you say! Go on, carry
out thisfarce a little longer. I am here to get the dinner you promised me;
I enjoy this comedy tremendously. And now Sylvester takes the lead.He is
trying to explain one of Borowski's gouaches. "Come here,do you see? One of
them is playing the guitar i the other is holdinga girl in his lap. " True,
Sylvester. Very true. Borowski and his guitars!The girls in his lap! Only
one never quite knows what it is he holdsin his lap, or whether it is really
a man playing the guitar. . . .
    Soon Moldorfwill be trotting in on all fours and Boris with that
helpless littlelaugh of his. There will be a golden pheasant for dinner and
Anjou andshort fat cigars. And Cronstadt, when he gets the latest news,
willlive a little harder, a little brighter, for five minutes; and thenhe
will subside again into the humus of his ideology and perhaps a poemwill be
born, a big golden bell of a poem without a tongue.
    Had to knockoff for an hour or so. Another customer to look at the
apartment. Upstairsthe bloody Englishman is practicing his Bach. It is
imperative now.when someone comes to look at the a-partment, to run upstairs
and askthe pianist to lay off for a while.
    Elsa is telephoningthe greengrocer. The plumber is putting a new seat on
the toilet bowl.Whenever the doorbell rings Boris loses his equilibrium. In
the excitementhe has dropped his glasses; he is on his hands and knees, his
frockcoat is dragging the floor. It is a little like the Grand Guignol _the
starving poet come to give the butcher's daughter lessons. Everytime the
phone rings the poet's mouth waters. Mallarme sounds like asirloin steak,
Victor Hugo like fme de veau. Elsa is orderinga delicate little lunch for
Boris _ "a nice juicy little pork chop," she says. I see a whole flock of
pink hams lying cold on the marble,wonderful hams cushioned in white tat. I
have a terrific hunger thoughwe've only had breakfast a few minutes ago _
it's the lunch that haveto skip. It's only