cheesecake, whichever you like, they're both
very good. When you write for the papers, of course you must write
whatever you wish, even harsh things, but don't forget that the human
voice may have been created to express both protest and ridicule, but
essentially it contains a considerable percentage of quiet, precise speech
which is meant to come out in measured words. It may seem
that amid all the hubbub such a voice has no chance,
but nevertheless its worth using it, even in a small room among three
or four listeners. There are still some people in this country who maintain
that the emperor is usually neither naked nor fully dressed, but, for example,
wearing clothes that do not suit him. He may even be excellently
dressed, but every bit as foolish as the cheering crowd, or the other
crowd that is no longer cheering, but jeering, or shouting that
the emperor is dead, or deserves to be. And anyway, who says that
a naked emperor is such a bad thing? After all, aren't the crowd also naked,
and the tailor and the little boy? Perhaps the best thing for you is to
steer clear of the procession altogether. Stay put in your house in Arad
and try to write in a quiet way if you can. At times like these, quiet
is the most precious commodity in the country. And let there be no
misunderstanding, I'm talking about quiet, definitely not about silence.
In Bangladesh in the rain Rico understands for a moment
With his back to his mother on the bridge in the warm rain
between a small town and a swamp Rico hears wet voices
in the distance. Women, foggy bears, are laughing in the flooded
field and one of them waves to him, inviting him to join them.
His waterlogged hair in his face and a whiff of stray smell
that reminds him of overripe figs, the smell of Dita with his
tongue in her ear and his hand stroking the inside of her thigh.
The warm rain keeps falling and under the bridge the muddy
river flows porridge-like. Sorrow and desire come, desire rises like
mercury in the thermometer of his cock pressed against the wall
of the bridge while his hands move to and fro over the rough
parapet He looks at the trees with their roots half-exposed
in the soggy air, extra-terrestrial fingers, clutching at nothing.
Because his back is to his mother, inevitably he is facing
his father. If he turns his back on his father he will face
his mother again. He must change this staging, move my parents
closer to each other so that I can have my back to both
and return. The peasant woman who was calling him gives up
and stoops toward the mud, as the rain goes on and on.
Magnificat
Morning of orange-tinged joy: I get up at half past four and by five I have
finished my coffee and am settling down at my desk, and almost at once
there emerge two fully-formed lines running straight from my pen to
the paper like a kitten weaving on tiptoe out of the bushes, there they are
as though they were not written but always existed, not mine but their own.
The light of the hills to the east cannot keep its hands to itself, shamelessly
groping at private parts, causing heavy breathing all around, in birds branches
sand bees, so here we are delightedly leaving the desk and going off to work
in the garden, although it is not even six, the fictional Narrator, the whole
cast of characters, the implied author, the early-rising writer, and I.
Roses, myrtles, bougainvillaea, violets and sage have all gathered dewdrops
and are now gently lit. Rico and Giggy Ben-Gal are clearing the ground
round the two lemon trees, while Nadia, my father and Dombrov are pruning
suckers from the roses and Avram is helping the author and Albert to hoe
the edges of the flowerbed, weeding by hand among the flowers. Bettine,
my mother and Dita are stooping and tying sweet peas to canes and even
the Russian merchant stops on his way to China, and repairs the vine trellis,
while my daughter Fania helps him, asking him how much they know
in Nanking about Nizhni and how Nizhni looks from Nanking, and Maria
is
very good. When you write for the papers, of course you must write
whatever you wish, even harsh things, but don't forget that the human
voice may have been created to express both protest and ridicule, but
essentially it contains a considerable percentage of quiet, precise speech
which is meant to come out in measured words. It may seem
that amid all the hubbub such a voice has no chance,
but nevertheless its worth using it, even in a small room among three
or four listeners. There are still some people in this country who maintain
that the emperor is usually neither naked nor fully dressed, but, for example,
wearing clothes that do not suit him. He may even be excellently
dressed, but every bit as foolish as the cheering crowd, or the other
crowd that is no longer cheering, but jeering, or shouting that
the emperor is dead, or deserves to be. And anyway, who says that
a naked emperor is such a bad thing? After all, aren't the crowd also naked,
and the tailor and the little boy? Perhaps the best thing for you is to
steer clear of the procession altogether. Stay put in your house in Arad
and try to write in a quiet way if you can. At times like these, quiet
is the most precious commodity in the country. And let there be no
misunderstanding, I'm talking about quiet, definitely not about silence.
In Bangladesh in the rain Rico understands for a moment
With his back to his mother on the bridge in the warm rain
between a small town and a swamp Rico hears wet voices
in the distance. Women, foggy bears, are laughing in the flooded
field and one of them waves to him, inviting him to join them.
His waterlogged hair in his face and a whiff of stray smell
that reminds him of overripe figs, the smell of Dita with his
tongue in her ear and his hand stroking the inside of her thigh.
The warm rain keeps falling and under the bridge the muddy
river flows porridge-like. Sorrow and desire come, desire rises like
mercury in the thermometer of his cock pressed against the wall
of the bridge while his hands move to and fro over the rough
parapet He looks at the trees with their roots half-exposed
in the soggy air, extra-terrestrial fingers, clutching at nothing.
Because his back is to his mother, inevitably he is facing
his father. If he turns his back on his father he will face
his mother again. He must change this staging, move my parents
closer to each other so that I can have my back to both
and return. The peasant woman who was calling him gives up
and stoops toward the mud, as the rain goes on and on.
Magnificat
Morning of orange-tinged joy: I get up at half past four and by five I have
finished my coffee and am settling down at my desk, and almost at once
there emerge two fully-formed lines running straight from my pen to
the paper like a kitten weaving on tiptoe out of the bushes, there they are
as though they were not written but always existed, not mine but their own.
The light of the hills to the east cannot keep its hands to itself, shamelessly
groping at private parts, causing heavy breathing all around, in birds branches
sand bees, so here we are delightedly leaving the desk and going off to work
in the garden, although it is not even six, the fictional Narrator, the whole
cast of characters, the implied author, the early-rising writer, and I.
Roses, myrtles, bougainvillaea, violets and sage have all gathered dewdrops
and are now gently lit. Rico and Giggy Ben-Gal are clearing the ground
round the two lemon trees, while Nadia, my father and Dombrov are pruning
suckers from the roses and Avram is helping the author and Albert to hoe
the edges of the flowerbed, weeding by hand among the flowers. Bettine,
my mother and Dita are stooping and tying sweet peas to canes and even
the Russian merchant stops on his way to China, and repairs the vine trellis,
while my daughter Fania helps him, asking him how much they know
in Nanking about Nizhni and how Nizhni looks from Nanking, and Maria
is
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