And when she reckoned the image of her mother it would be as though from an old all but forgotten photograph, a mere shade of a shadow of a shade.
The air is thick with grit-fine particles of dust adhere to the page on which I write. I hear her voice: "Dust! How wonderful this theme! Endless!"
It is a matter of mirrors-a matter of mirrors.
She who was to be embraced as the embodiment of passion was as relentless a mechanist as the coldest of intellectuals-We think we see what we see, hear what we hear, think what we think and yes feel what we feel yet even in the dusky shades inhabiting all that is feeling were the mirrors, ever, and always.
This must be taken in.
That he would have found himself contemplating the necessity of taking in such a gaping hole fairly took the breath from out of his chest, as he stood on that unnameable corner in the bowels of the old Bombay-he was there at this confluence and must needs face the scenery, take it, as it were, all in. Well, first, you see, there are the hedgerows all in a row, in many rows, rows of rows, rows upon rows of rows, reflecting a music of the river and its motions...a wash of colors, a garden.
It was of some interest to note, in passing, that Marguerite insisted on knowledge-"You knew, Anais, didn't you, everything!" she had said. "The child knew everything. the child always knows everything." And then, with a voice disappearing as into a mist: "We are all orphans here."
to be coninued......