snooze. Whatever, he woke to plaudits and florabelles. Something, too, had addressed the reality of his beard. Ha! he said. He was the soul of wit in those happy days.
There were other engagements, between which “Tod” played quietly among his lemons, or what may have been only the “images” of his lemons, if such a word may be used among the furtive lagniappes of the marathon readings in celebration of the sentient beings then abounding. On the other hand, he had a surpassingly tenuous idea of life when at liberty, so to say, and when his chef created chicken Marengo, Berrigan realized, with what he would scoff to term “a start,” that the crawfish were much bigger than he, as were also the oeufs(?). But he fell to with a good appetite and finished everything on the platter, despite its or his apparent or real size. This incident was also optically questionable. It, too, must fall under the heading, if you will, of the “phenomenal.”
There is little need or desire to speak of the wanton destruction of the fleet by Nelson, the obsessed mariner and scourge of the waters, whose cry, “Put out my other eye, Hardy, for the to’gallants smell o’ death!,” electrified all of Britain. His spectacular victory brought a ray of hope to citrus-suspicious Europe, which had been in the bleakest of dumps because of the madness and lust of the Jacobins and the publication of Wordsworth’s The Stamp Distributor. (“A whiff of the grape!” is probably what Nelson hallooed to his gunnery captain, Hardy, or, variantly, “Put out my other eye, Hardy, and give me a taste of the grape!”)
By this time, “Tod” had lost all sense of stability, so that when news of Nelson’s brave shout was brought to him in his tent and subsequently translated, the reference to “grape” sent him into concealment behind two or three large lemons he’d ordered from home. “Home!” he’d often think. The next morning, of course, the sad retreat from Moscow began, a dispiriting exodus that ended with the bitter tragedy of 18 Brumaire. “Had our restless and well-read bricoleur only known,” said many a grizzled veteran of the Big Army. The sunlight blazed and shattered off their medals in a curious manner, reminiscent of Apollinaire, one of the many poets whose work Berrigan had learned by heart.
Lemons
The lemon is not quite the size of the American cantaloupe, yet it is considerably larger than the cantaloupes that exist in supermarket ads. It is rare that one encounters a lemon even half the size of a rather small man. This conundrum only serves further to confuse the fruit-filled dilemmas of Berrigan’s life. Many modern people, anxiously on the go, take the juice of half a lemon in hot water every morning, for the sake of a regular (?), not that it matters, apparently. They will die, even as you and I. “Mostly bricoleurs,” they protested, prostrate before the highly-regarded interviewer’s tent. What did they mean to suggest?
Yet there are cancer dangers implicit in lemon use. New laboratory reports come “in” every month, and while the data are raw, rats used in subject-friendly experiments contracted cancers of the liver, kidney, and stomach after the ingestion of nine lemons daily for the space of four months. It should be noted that certain of the rats suffered from visual hallucinatory episodes, i.e., they seemed to see lemons “everywhere.” “Tod” thought long and hard about this, propped, as he was, against a favorite bench.
At Austerlitz, tired at last of Josephine’s (name changed) spending orgies, “Tod” took the juice of half a lemon in cognac upon arising. He’d often joke with young Pierre, his favorite shoes, about the pleasures of tipsy (illegible); and even he had difficulty defining the elusive term. And yet the cantaloupe was unknown to him, even though Moravia was then the melon capital of Europe. One apocryphal story has it that Berrigan, upon seeing a cantaloupe for the first time,
There were other engagements, between which “Tod” played quietly among his lemons, or what may have been only the “images” of his lemons, if such a word may be used among the furtive lagniappes of the marathon readings in celebration of the sentient beings then abounding. On the other hand, he had a surpassingly tenuous idea of life when at liberty, so to say, and when his chef created chicken Marengo, Berrigan realized, with what he would scoff to term “a start,” that the crawfish were much bigger than he, as were also the oeufs(?). But he fell to with a good appetite and finished everything on the platter, despite its or his apparent or real size. This incident was also optically questionable. It, too, must fall under the heading, if you will, of the “phenomenal.”
There is little need or desire to speak of the wanton destruction of the fleet by Nelson, the obsessed mariner and scourge of the waters, whose cry, “Put out my other eye, Hardy, for the to’gallants smell o’ death!,” electrified all of Britain. His spectacular victory brought a ray of hope to citrus-suspicious Europe, which had been in the bleakest of dumps because of the madness and lust of the Jacobins and the publication of Wordsworth’s The Stamp Distributor. (“A whiff of the grape!” is probably what Nelson hallooed to his gunnery captain, Hardy, or, variantly, “Put out my other eye, Hardy, and give me a taste of the grape!”)
By this time, “Tod” had lost all sense of stability, so that when news of Nelson’s brave shout was brought to him in his tent and subsequently translated, the reference to “grape” sent him into concealment behind two or three large lemons he’d ordered from home. “Home!” he’d often think. The next morning, of course, the sad retreat from Moscow began, a dispiriting exodus that ended with the bitter tragedy of 18 Brumaire. “Had our restless and well-read bricoleur only known,” said many a grizzled veteran of the Big Army. The sunlight blazed and shattered off their medals in a curious manner, reminiscent of Apollinaire, one of the many poets whose work Berrigan had learned by heart.
Lemons
The lemon is not quite the size of the American cantaloupe, yet it is considerably larger than the cantaloupes that exist in supermarket ads. It is rare that one encounters a lemon even half the size of a rather small man. This conundrum only serves further to confuse the fruit-filled dilemmas of Berrigan’s life. Many modern people, anxiously on the go, take the juice of half a lemon in hot water every morning, for the sake of a regular (?), not that it matters, apparently. They will die, even as you and I. “Mostly bricoleurs,” they protested, prostrate before the highly-regarded interviewer’s tent. What did they mean to suggest?
Yet there are cancer dangers implicit in lemon use. New laboratory reports come “in” every month, and while the data are raw, rats used in subject-friendly experiments contracted cancers of the liver, kidney, and stomach after the ingestion of nine lemons daily for the space of four months. It should be noted that certain of the rats suffered from visual hallucinatory episodes, i.e., they seemed to see lemons “everywhere.” “Tod” thought long and hard about this, propped, as he was, against a favorite bench.
At Austerlitz, tired at last of Josephine’s (name changed) spending orgies, “Tod” took the juice of half a lemon in cognac upon arising. He’d often joke with young Pierre, his favorite shoes, about the pleasures of tipsy (illegible); and even he had difficulty defining the elusive term. And yet the cantaloupe was unknown to him, even though Moravia was then the melon capital of Europe. One apocryphal story has it that Berrigan, upon seeing a cantaloupe for the first time,
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