Märchen (2)

MÄRCHEN (2)

'The true life is not reducible to words spoken or written, not by anyone, ever. The true life takes place when we're alone, thinking, feeling, lost in memory, dreamingly self-aware, the submicroscopic moments. He said this more than once, Elster did, in more than one way. His life happened, he said, when he sat staring at a blank wall, thinking about dinner.' 

(DeLillo, Point Omega, 21)

Farewell To All That (7)

FAREWELL TO ALL THAT (7)

'So . . . Uncork the bottles and cut the cigars.'

'Have you said your goodbyes? (How I do love tatas)'

'What?' I replied.

The Priestess cleared her throat of phlegm, and said:

'Have you said au revoir, ciao, bis bald, see you soon? (It ain't - after all - like you're off to the moon.) Did they give you a party? Present you a gift?'

'Are you mad? They're just pleased that I'm off; that they're rid. . . Not a peep from the gods: not a thanks, no adieu. . .'

'Well, the gods have their own rules. You shouldn't feel sore.'

'Oh, sod off,' I said.

Farewell To All That (6)

FAREWELL TO ALL THAT (6)

The Priestess sucked the cork from a litre flask of Primitivo di Manduria and spat it on the floor. 

'Now, this caravan thing . . .'

'There are two metal posts dug deep in the ground,  96.8 metres apart. You can rig up a slack-line (it don't hurt the trees). Pull it tight, ratchet hard, that's the art.'

The Priestess bit the end off a Robusto, and reached for a match. 

Then, she sniped:

'Now, look here me Dearie, I'm sick of this stuff; sick to death of it (bored of it, too). You're going away for a couple of months. It's not like you're fucking Thoreau. 

'So, you think you're unique; all this caravan chic. Just don't splash on the chemical loo.'