They are monumental, these ships. Cities self-sufficient in every respect. They move with tranquil dignity through the upper air. How easily they resist the deceptive gravity of Carthage! Here are the far-flying colossal children of Mauretania; the logical resolution of our Western history. They are pure and they blaze like silver in the sun. They are seen in the horizon’s haze, flickering, suddenly golden, then their massive engines thrust forward, upward, and they are gone.
Wailing their earthbound despair, the conquered and the conquering, victims both, look up for an instant. If it were permitted them to think at all, they would think they had glimpsed heaven. Es war nicht meine Schuld. They move sluggishly, like chilled reptiles, desperate for the sun. Their wasted limbs are ensnared in filthy wreckage. They are opfal, say the Lords of Carthage. They gave their loyalty to the past, so they must die. Wie viele? Ich klayb pakistanish shmate. Ikh veys nit. They turn back to their sluggish battles, these slaves of the Sultan, these musselmanisch, these lagerflugen. Ikh varshtey nit.
In the clear upper air, a mile above, the world’s great nations sail. They are invisible, optimistic and vital. These cities are the ultimate expression of human imagination. If they are attacked they could launch from their towers a million silver knights, like militant angels. Let Carthage do what she wishes with her muddy conquests. We are free.
I shall dismiss the past. It is no longer of use. Its hands snare my rigging. I go now to live in the future with my destined bride, my Esmé, my sister and my rose. I shall bear her back from the East to the ultimate city of the West, to dwell in eternal harmony with our peers, within that noblest of all dreams: der Heim. A golden city of hope, purified and restored: my own inviolable Hollywood.
Ven vet men umkern mayn kindhayt?
Wie lange wir es dauern?