Or to California which is full of exiles and where they move castles from Europe stone by stone or construct fake follies. So you could move it too, No, better in Europe where the revolution will not occur since
Oh keep that out of it we’re on vacation now not on campus. The students have dispersed and the continuous notation cards on which you compose portraits and double portraits have been cybernetically processed into degrees of absence, permutated through the computer into grades obtained for this or that course the chaotic freedom in the choice of which makes you drive off onto the highway towards the paradiso terrestre. This is an idyll. Who speaks? There is a confusion of voices here, out of narrative time and out of character. The highway moreover is not always high, and in some cities the thruway goes round.
It is the Count who speaks however, pressing her into reading I promessi sposi as the best novel in the world and who is therefore quite evidently Italian, even if he is not a count.
But why a castle? It cannot be merely to change the scene since motivation is a cost and V = F. It could be a hotel (for realism). It could be for alliteration: a castle in California? in Catalunia? Calabria? Caledonia Canada Karinthia Kamchatka. But the punishment in final position has occurred on the diasporic term: the castle must be in France (Cantal or Aquitaine). Cancel however the calls of bridge. It is a Congress in Semiotics and semioticians do not play bridge but at semic polarities.
Or on a pale guitar addressing herself for you as La belle si tu voulais (bis) nous dormirions ensemble o-la (bis) and answering you with No vale la pena el llanto and readdressing herself for you with Yo no te offresco riqueza, Ti of fresco mi corazón and reanswering you with You ain’t going nowhere and a strange gaze at you through the whole repertoire in the dialectic of desire that gravitationally pulls you towards the centre of attention she enjoys as from the start an object of central loss, the sheer questiontagmatics having reversed the subject into a foreknowledge of the whole repeat performance which can only belong either to the narrator as a cheating young god or to Larissa as a well established structure that presupposes a void a fall into a delirious discourse watched indifferently through fingernail parings.
I’m not very good the first time.
O for a beaker full of the warm southern night that generates the first time into n swiftly changing viewpoints floating up from deep level dreamlessness every n minutes or so for a shared murmur of sweet nothingnesses then down again as mouth removes to mouth female to phallus in the show within the show, sucking the performer dry with recursivity from left to right in a performance that is to his competence as his nose is to his brow.
Fear is the function of his narrative.
You know his fear falls on the initial position but also on the last, he being a dysphoric term beneath his youphoria. And that the end of the kernel sentence is proepigrammed by the beginning, not by the bold centrecodpiece in mid copula as a wild manner of speaking pistolshot words like will you stay with me always always please will you marry me.
always? always Death said
The introduction, into the superficial grammar, of wanting as a modality, permits the construction of modal utterances with two actants united in a proposition, the axis of desire then authorising a semenic interpretation of them as virtual performer subject and an object instituted as value. Adam wants an apple Adam wants to be good. Such an acquisition, by the subject of the object, seems to occur as a reflex action, which is only a particular case of a much more general structure well known as the diagram of communication represented in its canonic form as an M and a Y of crossed limbs with diagonals from the I to the object
never believing anything said in moments of passion
(the notion of which has disappeared)
But I meant it, please, will you?
No my love, love is just a four-letter word.
That’s only a song, you know it’s more than that.
And when we’ve read the letters inside out and upside down you will go forth, and multiply.
But I don’t want to multiply I have three children already.
Go forth then. Fort-da.
What do you mean fortda?
Oh nothing. Just ticking myself off with something Freud said.
Da means yes in Russian
and gives in Italian so what? (Yes is for young men)
Or if by such misassociation when waking by anyone who swears eternal love make love not war make conversation as if conversation could be made all horizontal coordination degenerating into useless chatter: I didn’t know you were married.
I’m not I refused to marry her she took my name by Deed Poll.
Marriage is an outmoded institution. Only a few priests are thinking of it.
But you’re married.
Yes. What’s her name?
Maddy.
What?
Maddy. Well Madeleine really. Out of which improper name pours the surface grammar of his narrative disturbances for hours and days you shouldn’t talk of her like that you must have loved her long enough to have three children by her only two one is by an early marriage in Italy now annulled I didn’t love her you don’t know her she’s awful she drinks she’s a lousy mother she neglects the children it’s awful and I left her the house the car she’s done very well out of me. But I love my children I’m worried stiff about them it’s bad enough that I’ve become just a sort of uncle to Enzo that’s the first one but well as an unmarried mother she has all the rights I’m only the absent father. But I want to take them away from her oh please help me. Now, soon, I need you.
But when the shoulders shift back to the correct position the cars that look grey eminent into the retrovizor do not look double-faced or quadruple-eyed out of focus together with the four eyes but untarnished with single grins between two pale gold eyes one on either side or else two smaller city substitutes lower down but never two pairs together.
the grey eminence the retro-vizir beyond the consultana haggler of head nouns chopped below the performance yes your eminence I’ll come to that your reference but meanwhile
the retrovizor has a bluish tinge in the cold light the rectangle turns smoky grey to dim the dazzle of floods undipped or even gently dipped but the glare is preferable to the sudden isolation of almost not seeing behind a head
the dancing hoops. For the gold eyes when distant turn into hoops (at night in the correct position) of luminous green red amber bouncing in out of through and through each other narrowing to slim ovals vertical horizontal swaying undoing swiftly changing viewpoints as if juggled by a magician or the black recumbent street below and with the overhead bridges that make perhaps the optical illusion.
He shifts the mirror to his rearward glance. It doesn’t appear to work for him the lover of the moment of sudden isolation at not seeing the black magician who tantalisingly juggles luminous hoops into the rectangular hey you put my mirror back.
So it needs adjusting.
Why at this precise point introduce another idyll? Intensity of illusion is what matters to whoever is operating through a flaw in the glass darkly perhaps making two or four clear eyes stare back, two of them in their proper place at height of bridge of nose and, further up the brow, the
other two, exact replicas but dimmed as in a tarnished reflection, tarnished by the fringe they seem to peer through. A
second pair of eyes hidden higher up the brow certainly has its uses despite psychic invisibility or maybe because of. Gazing they do not see themselves. They reflect absolutely nothing, nor do they look at their bright replicas below in the proper place on either side of the nose which is a fraction iconic according to Armel but not precisely in this instance. Only these lower eyes, reflecting, presumably, the eyes of the real face as it leans for reassurance a bit to the right, see the upper eyes, looking up at the fringe of straight brown hair.