Part One-1
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SHE is a tall dark beauty taining a great may spots: one above the breast, one above the belly, one above the knee, one above the ankle, one above the buttock, one on the back of the neck. All of these are on the left side, more or less in a row, as you go up and down:*
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The hair is black as ebony, the skin white as snow.
BILL is tired of Snow White now. But he ot tell her. No, that would not be the way. Bill t bear to be touched. That is oo. To have aouch him is unbearable. Not just Snow White but also Kevin, Edward, Hubert, Henry, Clem or Dan. That is a peculiar aspect of Bill, the leader. We speculate that he doesnt want to be involved in human situations any more. A withdrawal. Withdrawal is one of the four modes of dealing with ay. We speculate that his reluce to be touched springs from that. Dan does not go along with the aheory. Dan does not believe in ay. Dan speculates that Bills reluce to be touched is a physical maion of a metaphysical dition that is not ay. But he is the only one who speculates that. The rest of us support ay. Bill has let us know in subtle ways that he doesnt want to be touched. If he falls down, you are not to pick him up. If someone holds out a hand iing, Bill smiles. If it is time to wash the buildings, he will pick up his own bucket. Dont hand him a bucket, for in that circumstahere is a ce that your hands will touch. Bill is tired of Snow White. She must have noticed that he doesnt go to the shower room, now. We are sure she has noticed that. But Bill has not told her in so many words that he is tired of her. He has not had the heart to unfold those cruel words, we speculate. Those cruel words remain locked in his lack of heart. Snow White must assume that his absence from the shower room, in these days, is an aspect of his not liking to be touched. We are certain she has assumed that. But to what does she attribute the "not-liking" itself? We dont know.
"OH I wish there were some words in the world that were not the words I always hear!" Snow White exclaimed loudly. We regarded each other sitting around the breakfast table with its big cardboard boxes of "Fear," "Chix," and "Rats." Words in the world that were not the words she always heard? What words could those be? "Fish slime," Howard said, but he was a visitor, and rather crude too, and we instantly regretted that we had lent him a sleeping bag, and took it away from him, and took away his bowl too, and the Chix that were in it, and the milk on top of the Chix, and his spoon and napkin and chair, and begaing him with boxes, to indicate that his wele had been used up. We soon got rid of him. But the problem r<tt></tt>emained. What words were those? "Now we have bee sug the mop again," Kevin said, but Kevin is easily disced. "Injuns!" Bill said, and when he said that we were glad he was still our leader, although some of us had been w about him lately. "Murder and create!" Henry said, and that was weak, but lauded, and Snow White said, "That is one Ive never heard before ever," and that gave us ce, and we all began to say things, things that were more or less satisfactory, or at least adequate, to serve the purpose, for the time being. The whole thing apered over, for the time being, and didnt break out into the open. If it had broken out into the open, then we would really have bee sug the mop in a big way, that Monday.
THEN we went out to wash the buildings. buildings fill your eyes with sunlight, and your heart with the idea that man is perfectible. Also they are good places to look at girls from, those high, swaying wooden platforms: you get a rare view, gazing at the tops of their red and gold and plum-colored heads. Viewed from above they are like targets, the plum-colored head the ter of the target, the wavy navy skirt the bold circumferehe white or black legs flopping out in front are like someone waving his arms over the top of the target and calling, "You missed the ter by not allowing suffitly for the wind!" We are very much tempted to shoot our arrows into them, those targets. You know what that means. But we also pay attention to the buildings, gray and noble in their false architecture and cladding. There are Tiparillos in our faces and heavy janglis around our waists, and water in our buckets and squeegees on our poles. And we have our beer bottles up there too, and drink beer for a sed breakfast, even though that is against the law, but we are so high up, no one be sure. Its too bad Hogo de Bergerat up here with us, because maybe the experience would be good for him, would make him less loathsome. But he would probably just seize the occasion to perform some new loathsome act. He would probably just throw beer s down into the street, to make irritating lumps uhe feet of those girls whht this minute, are trying to find the right typewriter, in the correct building.
NOW shes written a dirty great poem fes long, wo us read it, refuses absolutely, she is adamant. We discovered it by act. We had trudged home early, lingered in the vestibule for a bit w if we should trudge inside. A strange prehension, a boding of some kind. Therudged inside. "Heres the mail," we said. She was writing something, we could see that. "Heres the mail," we said again, usually she likes to paw over the mail, but she reoccupied, didnt look up, not a flicker. "What are you doing there," we asked, "writing something?" Snow White looked up. "Yes," she said. And looked down again, not a pinotion c the jet black of her jet-black eyes. "A letter?" we asked w if a letter then to whom and about what. "No," she said. "A list?" we asked iing her white face for a hint of tendresse. But there was no tendresse. "No," she said. We noticed then that she had switched the tulips from the green bowl to the blue bowl. "What then?" we asked. We noticed th<bdi>藏书网</bdi>at she had shifted the lilies from the escritoire to the chiffonier. "What then?" we repeated. We observed that she had hauled the Indian paintbrush all the way out into the kit. "Poem," she said. We had the mail in our paws still. "Poem?" we said. "Poem," she said. There it was, the red meat on the rug. "Well," we said, " we have a peek?" "No," she said. "How long is it?" we asked. "Fes," she said, "at present." Fes!" The thought of this immense work. . .
Vacillations and fusions of Snow White: "But who am I to love?" Snow White asked hesitating, because she already loved us, in a way, but it wasnt enough. Still, she was slightly ashamed.
THEN I took off my shirt and called Paul, because we were planning to break into his apartment, and if he was there, we could not do so. If he was there we would be reized, he would knoe were, and that we were carrying his typewriter out into the street to sell it. He would know everything about us: how we made our living, what girls we liked, where we kept the vats. Paul didnt answer so it wasnt necessary to ask if Anna was there -- the prepared name we were going to ask for. Paul sat in his baff, uhe falling water. He was writing a palinode. "Perhaps it is wrong to have favorites among the forms," he reflected. "But retra has a special allure for me. I would wish to retract everything, if I could, so that the whole written world would be. . ." More hot water fell into th<s>藏书网</s>e baff. "I would retract the green sea, and the brown fish in it, and I would especially retract that long black hair hanging from that window, that I saw today on my way here, from the Unemployment Office. It has made me terribly nervous, that hair. It was beautiful, I admit it. Long black hair of such texture, fineness, is not easily e by. Hair black as ebony! Yet it has made me terribly nervous. Why some i person might e along, a, and ceive it his duty to climb up, and dis the reason it is being hung out of that window. There is probably some girl attached to it, at the top, and with her responsibilities of various sorts. . . teeth. . . piano lessons. . . There is the telephing, now. Who is it? Who or what wants me? I will not ahat way, I am safe, for the time being."
THERE is a river of girls and women in our streets. There are so many that the cars are forced to use the sidewalks. The women walk ireet proper, the part where, in other cities, trucks and bicycles are found. They stand in windows too unbug their shirts, so that we will not be displeased. I admire them for that. We have voted again and again, and I think they like that, that we vote so much. We voted to try the river in the own. They have a girl-river there they dont use much. We slipped into the felucca carrying gage in long vas tubes tied, in the middle, with straps. The girls groaned uhe additional weight. Then Hubert pushed off and Bill began to beat time for the rowers. We wondered if Snow White would be happy, alohere. But if she wasnt, we couldnt do anything about it. Men try to please their mistresses when they, men, are not busy in the tinghouse, or drinkihs, or having the blade of a new dagger chased with gold. In the village we walked around the well where the girls were dipping their trousers. The zippers were rusting. "Ha ha," the girls said, "we could tear this down in a mihis well." It is difficult to defeat that notion, the ohe village girls hold, that the boy who trembles by the wall, against the stones, will be Pope someday. He is not even hungry; his family is not even poor.
WHAT is Snow White thinking? No one knows. Today she came into the kit and asked flass of water. Henry gave her a glass of water. "Arent you going to ask me what I want this glass of water for?" she asked. "I assumed you wao drink it," Henry said. "No, Henry," Snow White said. "Thirsty I am not. You are not paying attention, Henry. Your eye is not on the ball." "What do you want the glass of water for, Snow White?" "Let a hundred flowers bloom," Snow White said. Then she left the room, carrying the glass of water. Kevin came in. "Snow White smiled at me in the hall," Kevin said. "Shut up Kevin. Shut up and tell me what this means: let a hundred flowers bloom." "I dont know what it means Henry," Kevin said. "Its ese, I know that." What is Snow White thinking? No one knows. Now she has taken to wearing heavy blue bulky shapeless quilted Peoples Volurousers rather thaight tremendous how-the-West-was-won trousers she formerly wore, which we admired immoderately. An unmistakable affront I would say. We are getting pretty damned sick of the whole thing, of her air of being just about to do something and of the dozen-odd red flags and bugles she has o the dining-room table. We are getting pretty damned sick of the whole thing and our equanimity is leaking away and finding those tiny Chairman Mao poems in the baby food isnt helping o, I tell you that.
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