But what are pity, conscience, or fear To the brazen pair, compared With the living sorcery Of their hot embraces?
Our evenings are farewells. Our parties are testaments. So that the secret stream of suffering. May warm the cold of life.
But who are we, where do we come from When all those years Nothing but idle talk is left And we are nowhere in the world?" = MEETING =
And when the war broke out, its real horrors, its real dangers, its menace of real death were a blessing compared with the inhuman reign of the lie, and they brought relief because they broke the spell of the dead letter.
As before the collapse, the setting sun brushed the tiles, brought out the warm brown glow on the wallpaper, and hung the shadow of the birch on the wall as if it were a woman's scarf.
I have been writing in spurts, bit by bit. It is incredibly difficult. Everything is corroded, broken, dismantled; everything is covered with hardened layers of accumulated insensitivity, deafness, entrenched routine. It is disgusting.
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