  Those various sounds consistently indistinct, like intermingled echoes struck from thin glass successively at random—the inflection disguised: your hair, the tails of two fighting-cocks head to head in stone—like sculptured scimitars re- peating the curve of your ears in reverse order: your eyes, flowers of ice and snow sown by tearing winds on the cordage of disabled ships: your raised hand an ambiguous signature: your cheeks, those rosettes of blood on the stone floors of French chÂteaux, with regard to which guides are so affirmative: your other hand a bundle of lances all alike, partly hid by emeralds from Persia and the fractional magnificence of Florentine goldwork—a collection of half a dozen little objects made fine with enamel in gray, yellow, and dragonfly blue: a lemon, a pear and three bunches of grapes, tied with silver: your dress, a magnificent square cathedral of uniform and at the same time, diverse appearance—a species of vertical vineyard rustling in the storm of conventional opinion. Are they weapons or scalpels? Whetted to brilliance by the hard majesty of that sophistication which is su- perior to opportunity, these things are rich instruments with which to experiment but surgery is not tentative: why dissect destiny with instruments which are more highly specialized than the tissues of destiny itself? |
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