…..…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………… and then I met, I was writing the story of, and he, who said nothing about, but all her life long, as though the horse had been killing itself for all those pale autumn days in the midst of a riverside country the sparkling stars of which were – and the poor fellow following Don Quixote did not know any word of the above language. Words, my head was full of them all, a lexicon, my mind was full of the entries the foregoing centuries had kept for themselves in case when a yellow pre-war arch would burst its walls. Some now and then, I cannot say the writer wrote but the man was forgotten in the leading path of the deep down forbidden maze. How green ! Then all of a sudden the outcast entered the room, smoking his deliberately turned down pipe – or rather the pipe was turned up, only this man was walking the ceiling. That is the reason why I could see him when, writing the story of, and any novel is the tale of an untold what.

All her life long, she had loved flowers. On her burial the winter before, the mourners left lots of flowers on her grave, lilies, chrysanthemums, geraniums, forget-me-nots and so on ; less than an hour later the flowers had faded, which led people to conclude she was not really dead. Truly she appeared once in a novel by Jane Austen as a rotten hydrangea stinking miles away a fiction which was eventually discarded so no one knows it even existed.

As for the pages themselves, I found them back on my way to KG at a period when I was hesitating whether I would write or not the story of, and he who said nothing about, but all her life long, she had loved flowers.

On these very pages, I decided to write the story of, and all of a sudden, the outcast entered, the outcast entered the room. The outcast entered the room and I set about telling him the story of the fox-headed lovelace that was forgotten in the leading path to the deep down forbidden maze.  As a matter of fact, I was in those days writing the story of, and he, who said nothing about it, entered the room.

« The coming of all flesh, such was love in those days », it was the first sentence of my story, but everyone knows any novel is the tale of an untold what.

The two lovers were running along the white-gowned night of their encounter, one hundred yards above the near river.

She was like a waking lily, her flesh was as fresh as a dewdrop upon the waking hand of a nineteen-year-old boy who has just come out of a lonely dream about how life could bleed so fast from the very heart of a paradise-seeker. — O my dear lord, can you hear the closing beauty of heavenly windows ? — O my lady fair, can you hear the throbbing speech of my desire ? — O my dear lord, there runs around us a net (sort of) of love-letters. See, there will be smoke in the East foreboding the blue morn when our love reigns. And, in the distance, the nineteen-year-old boy’s lonely dream settled itself on the lone tree of the hill, and thought about its life. « Last century when I married, snow was flaking this same country and every night now the poor boy thinks of marrying the lady of the heath. »

I was writing a story and possessed of an undecipherable frightening human charge. I was writing the story of, and he, who said nothing about, thought of getting out of the maze. Meanwhile, an old woman was sitting on the bench, facing the coming waves of the ocean, mending a brown fishing-net and gazing at the late beams of the hospitable sun the eyes of which were turned towards the moon that had newly appeared and she saw the ships eventually returning from their sea-labouring, exhausting flights of seagulls as they entered and casting upon the pier-lighthouse the last silky glimmers of an early windy wintry day.

For many years, in their dim little flat on the twentieth floor of a white, glaring building, both of them had expected their returning child. And she, the youngest mother in the town, would search into the spots of rain upon the kitchen-panes the blue-capped white–coated ten-year-old son she had let go and play war nine seasons or nine centuries before.

Then the waking hand of a nineteen-year-old boy waved out of a lonely dream and joined the skin of the lone tree on the hill : clouds of dust did cover the town and the two lovers come to each other. They were running along the white-gowned night of their encounter, and the near river neared the gently-beckoning reeds the dancing fairy girl’s white pair of pumps had glided (as she glided the comb on her hair) when, a few moments before, the most endurable shine of the ball had been subdued, leaving the fairy girl to her nighty dance and the nineteen-year-old boy to his dark dream.

The man had walked for miles and miles beside his horse, absolutely unable to utter any word to the few people he met, and the more progress he made, the more desert the landscape was. He went on walking under an ever-red, never-setting sun till he finally approached a castle on the sands, and the bread-giving lady sang him inside, then the sole night surrounded him, leaving him to his everlasting quest. In the distance, the lonely dream of the nineteen-year-old boy alighted on the lone tree of the hill and the fox-headed lovelace could hear the shadow say :

He is the one who seeth

The dancing fairy girl

Upon her head he seeth

The golden locks that curl

He is the one who seeth

The lady of the heath

He is the one who seeth

The pretty lovers run

About them he seeth

The handsome elves make fun

He is the one who seeth

The lady of the heath

 

He was listening to my story, wriggling strong puffs out of his pipe, and he, though the outcast, felt very concerned about the position of the man in the maze. He drew two five-square-inch diamonds and sketched the lines of the rising and setting sun ; he fancied a green-sand-covered land where he would find a never-setting sun, but too many remembrances besieged him.

The dazzling sound of Summer snows, the blue sharks in the Mediterranean transparencies, her slim, naked body stetched upon the flashy, white rocks of Southern waves, the dazzling beauty of her naked body, the blue sound under the naked white rocks, the slim sharks of Southern waves, beauty blue nakedness and he began to shout and yell and the very roof of the late night sky was not framed well enough to keep his screams from the hailing voices of Hell …………………………………………………………..

and then I met, I was writing the story of,

                                                                              _________________

                                                                                                                                 (to be continued. Moromikael, Dec. 2022)

                                                                                    CREDITS

-The man in the maze: the man who lost the everlasting sun. 

- The oucast: punished for his carnal knowledge of the sun.

- The old man: has spent his life seeking the lady-of-the-heath who had appeared in his dream.

- The  19-year-old boy: ran away from home ten years ago to follow the-lady-of-the-heath.

- The dream of the 19-year-old-boy: enters the mind of unrelated persons, one in each generation.

Jerome Smith-Collier

jer_smith-collier.auteur@laposte.net

Title picture : mine. Central picture from Wikipedia [data:image/jpeg;base64,/9j/4]