the price paid for Ingres’ La Source?’ Now…”
“Picasso says,” Balso broke in, “Picasso says there are no feet in nature…And, thanks for showing me around. I have to leave.”
But before he was able to get away, the guide caught him by the collar. “Just a minute, please. You were right to interrupt. We should talk of art, not artists. Please explain your interpretation of the Spanish master’s dictum.”
“Well, the point is…” Balso began. But before he could finish the guide started again. “If you are willing to acknowledge the existence of points,” he said, “then the statement that there are no feet in nature puts you in an untenable position. It depends for its very meaning on the fact that there are no points. Picasso, by making this assertion, has placed himself on the side of monism in the eternal wrangle between the advocates of the Singular and those of the Plural. As James puts it, ‘Does reality exist distributively or collectively—in the shape of eaches , everys, anys, eithers or only in the shape of an all or whole ?’ If reality is singular then there are no feet in nature, if plural, a great many. If the world is one [everything part of the same thing—called by Picasso nature] then nothing either begins or ends. Only when things take the shapes of eaches , everys, anys, eithers [have ends] do they have feet. Feet are attached to ends, by definition. Moreover, if everything is one, and has neither ends nor beginnings, then everything is a circle. A circle has neither a beginning nor an end. A circle has no feet If we believe that nature is a circle, then we must also believe that there are no feet in nature.
“Do not pooh-pooh this idea as mystical. Bergson has…”
“Cezanne said, ‘Everything tends toward the globular.’” With this announcement Balso made another desperate at tempt to escape.
“Cezanne?” the guide said, keeping a firm hold on Balso’s collar. “Cezanne is right The sage of Aix is…” With a violent twist, Balso tore loose and fled.
Balso fled down the great tunnel until he came upon a man, naked except for a derby in which thorns were sticking, who was attempting to crucify himself with thumb tacks. His curiosity got the better of his fear and he stopped.
“Can I help your he asked politely.
“No,” the man answered with even greater politeness, tipping his hat repeatedly as he spoke. “No, I can manage, thank you…
“My name is Maloney the Areopagite,” the man continued, answering the questions Balso was too well-bred to word, “and I am a catholic mystic. I believe implicitly in that terrible statement of Saint Hildegarde’s, ‘The lord dwells not in the bodies of the healthy and vigorous.’ I live as did Marie Alacoque, Suso, Labre, Lydwine of Schiedam, Rose of Lima. When my suffering is not too severe, I compose verses in imitation of Notker Balbus, Ekkenard le Vieux, Hucbald le Chauve.
“In the feathered darkness Of thy mouth, O Mother of God! I worship Christ The culminating rose.
“Get the idea? I spend the rest of my time marveling at the love shown by all the great saints for even the lowliest of God’s creatures. Have you ever heard of Benedict Labre? It was he who picked up the vermin that fell out of his hat and placed them piously back into his sleeve. Before calling in a laundress, another very holy man removed the vermin from his clothes in order not to drown the jewels of sanctity infesting them.
“Inspired by these thoughts I have decided to write the biography of Saint Puce, a great martyred member of the vermin family. If you are interested, I will give you a short precis of his life.
“Please do so, sir,” Balso said. “Live and learn is my motto, Mr. Maloney, so please continue.”
“Saint Puce was a flea,” Maloney the Areopagite began in a well-trained voice. “A flea who was born, lived, and died, beneath the arm of our Lord.
“Saint Puce was born from an egg that was laid in the flesh
“Picasso says,” Balso broke in, “Picasso says there are no feet in nature…And, thanks for showing me around. I have to leave.”
But before he was able to get away, the guide caught him by the collar. “Just a minute, please. You were right to interrupt. We should talk of art, not artists. Please explain your interpretation of the Spanish master’s dictum.”
“Well, the point is…” Balso began. But before he could finish the guide started again. “If you are willing to acknowledge the existence of points,” he said, “then the statement that there are no feet in nature puts you in an untenable position. It depends for its very meaning on the fact that there are no points. Picasso, by making this assertion, has placed himself on the side of monism in the eternal wrangle between the advocates of the Singular and those of the Plural. As James puts it, ‘Does reality exist distributively or collectively—in the shape of eaches , everys, anys, eithers or only in the shape of an all or whole ?’ If reality is singular then there are no feet in nature, if plural, a great many. If the world is one [everything part of the same thing—called by Picasso nature] then nothing either begins or ends. Only when things take the shapes of eaches , everys, anys, eithers [have ends] do they have feet. Feet are attached to ends, by definition. Moreover, if everything is one, and has neither ends nor beginnings, then everything is a circle. A circle has neither a beginning nor an end. A circle has no feet If we believe that nature is a circle, then we must also believe that there are no feet in nature.
“Do not pooh-pooh this idea as mystical. Bergson has…”
“Cezanne said, ‘Everything tends toward the globular.’” With this announcement Balso made another desperate at tempt to escape.
“Cezanne?” the guide said, keeping a firm hold on Balso’s collar. “Cezanne is right The sage of Aix is…” With a violent twist, Balso tore loose and fled.
Balso fled down the great tunnel until he came upon a man, naked except for a derby in which thorns were sticking, who was attempting to crucify himself with thumb tacks. His curiosity got the better of his fear and he stopped.
“Can I help your he asked politely.
“No,” the man answered with even greater politeness, tipping his hat repeatedly as he spoke. “No, I can manage, thank you…
“My name is Maloney the Areopagite,” the man continued, answering the questions Balso was too well-bred to word, “and I am a catholic mystic. I believe implicitly in that terrible statement of Saint Hildegarde’s, ‘The lord dwells not in the bodies of the healthy and vigorous.’ I live as did Marie Alacoque, Suso, Labre, Lydwine of Schiedam, Rose of Lima. When my suffering is not too severe, I compose verses in imitation of Notker Balbus, Ekkenard le Vieux, Hucbald le Chauve.
“In the feathered darkness Of thy mouth, O Mother of God! I worship Christ The culminating rose.
“Get the idea? I spend the rest of my time marveling at the love shown by all the great saints for even the lowliest of God’s creatures. Have you ever heard of Benedict Labre? It was he who picked up the vermin that fell out of his hat and placed them piously back into his sleeve. Before calling in a laundress, another very holy man removed the vermin from his clothes in order not to drown the jewels of sanctity infesting them.
“Inspired by these thoughts I have decided to write the biography of Saint Puce, a great martyred member of the vermin family. If you are interested, I will give you a short precis of his life.
“Please do so, sir,” Balso said. “Live and learn is my motto, Mr. Maloney, so please continue.”
“Saint Puce was a flea,” Maloney the Areopagite began in a well-trained voice. “A flea who was born, lived, and died, beneath the arm of our Lord.
“Saint Puce was born from an egg that was laid in the flesh
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