Those



various sounds, consistently indistinct, like intermingled echoes



struck from thin glasses successively at random—



the inflection disguised: your hair, the tails of two



fighting-cocks head to head in stone—



like sculptured scimitars repeating the curve of your



ears in reverse order:



your eyes,



flowers of ice and snow







sown by tearing winds on the cordage of disabled ships: your



raised hand



an ambiguous signature: your cheeks, those rosettes



of blood on the stone floors of French châteaux,



with regard to which the guides are so affirmative—



your other hand







a bundle of lances all alike, partly hid by emeralds from Persia



and the fractional magnificence of Florentine



goldwork—a collection of little objects—



sapphires set with emeralds, and pearls with a moonstone, made fine



with enamel in gray, yellow, and dragonfly blue;



a lemon, a pear







and three bunches of grapes, tied with silver: your dress, a magnificent square



cathedral tower of uniform



and at the same time diverse appearance—a



species of vertical vineyard, rustling in the storm



of conventional opinion—are they weapons or scalpels?



Whetted to brilliance







by the hard majesty of that sophistication which is superior to opportunity,



these things are rich instruments with which to experiment.



But why dissect destiny with instruments



more highly specialized than the components of destiny



itself?





