May 27th, 2009



tuesday xciv

it was hideous--it was abominable--he could not understand it. the woman was nothing to him--less than nothing--yet the blood hummed in his ears and hung a cloud before him. he knew it was only the stirring of the primal instinct, that it had no more to do with his reasoning self than any reflex impulse of the body; but that merely lowered anguish to disgust. yes, it was disgust he felt--almost a physical nausea. the poisonous fumes of life were in his lungs. he was sick, unutterably sick. . . .
goat of the sea beef

and nothing is, but what is not

if chance will haue me king, why chance may crowne me, without my stirre

tuesday xciv bis

the man, understanding the importance of his caresses, redoubled them in such a way as to surprise and stupefy his imperious courtesan. when he felt sure of having extinguished the ferocity of his capricious companion, whose hunger had so fortunately been satisfied the day before, he got up to go out of the cave; the panther let him go out, but when he had reached the summit of the hill she sprang with the lightness of a sparrow hopping from twig to twig, and rubbed herself against his legs, putting up her back after the manner of all the race of cats. then regarding her guest with eyes whose glare had softened a little, she gave vent to that wild cry which naturalists compare to the grating of a saw.
the goat i am

i have but one lamp by which my feet are guided, and that is the lamp of experience.

i know of no way of judging of the future but by the past.

wednesday xciv

the topmost line, divided, shows it subject with extraordinary boldness wading through a stream, till the water hides the crown of his head.

malaga, madame, is dexterity personified; her little wrist or her little foot can rid her of three or four men. she is the goddess of gymnastics."

"she must be stupid—"

"oh, no," said paz, "i find her as amusing as the heroine of 'peveril of the peak.' thoughtless as a bohemian, she says everything that comes into her head; she thinks no more about the future than you do of the sous you fling to the poor. she says grand things sometimes. you couldn't make her believe that an old diplomatist was a handsome young man, not if you offered her a million of francs. such love as hers is perpetual flattery to a man. her health is positively insolent, and she has thirty-two oriental pearls in lips of coral. her muzzle—that's what she calls the lower part of her face—has, as shakespeare expresses it, the savor of a heifer's nose. she can make a man unhappy. she likes handsome men, strong men, alexanders, gymnasts, clowns. her trainer, a horrible brute, used to beat her to make her supple, and graceful, and intrepid—"

"you are positively intoxicated with malaga."

'o faun,' - he turned to puck - 'the little altar i built to the sylvan pan by the pine-forest beyond the brook?'

'which? the stone one with the line from xenophon?' said puck, in quite a new voice.

'no! what do i know of xenophon? that was pertinax - after he had shot his first mountain-hare with an arrow - by chance! mine i made of round pebbles, in memory of my first bear. it took me one happy day to build.'

certainly the prospect of listening to long monologues on commerce, administration, and politics did not promise much alleviation to his sorrow;

"i don't want; i want to grow potatoes." "have a peppermint?"
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