Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: June 19, 2025
She listened without understanding but after days had passed, dreams of the man with the black hair slanting across his forehead came to her when she was alone. So when the Old One of the caravan said "You may go with this stranger. You can go away if you wish"; she nodded and smiled with happiness. Mallare brought her home.
Can you say, 'I am yours'? Can you give yourself to me and deceive me with the beautiful illusion of submission? Tell me. Speak to me." Her eyes burning toward him, Rita nodded her head. "Yours," she whispered. "Whatever you say, I am." "Clever, clever," Mallare muttered, "it speaks to me and I hear. It says 'yours. I become too involved. Or perhaps this is only a dream.
Although I have explained the thing to her clearly. It is possible she does not understand. I will talk to her again with greater lucidity. I will tell her that I do not desire her except as a dream for my mirror. But I have said that to her." Under the green-white sputter of a street lamp, Mallare halted. His mind was preoccupied with unraveling the mystery of Rita.
I whispered to him to come close this lugubrious blasphemer who wears my name in his throat. But his face grew white. His arms dropped and he leaned against the curtains. His eyes closed and he fell. The Indifferent One remained. The smile of Mallare remained contemplating the prostrate ones. "The couch was still alive. But it was dark. Her outline was already disintegrating.
You are a babble of words that stands on its nose. "Laugh at me, Mallare. Let me hear your laugh far away. Or I go. Listen, Mallare. I turn my back on this darkness. I do not kneel at empty couches. No. I wait for you. You were my God. You, the One who contemplated. Yes, my arms are out to You. Come ... a whisper out of silences. Hey, Mallare. I dissolve. I become a little phantom.
It is a clown's suit in which my mourning disguises itself. Mallare has fallen out of his black heaven. And he picks himself up like a good burgher. He grunts and chuckles and looks at the skies, alas, without curiosity. Lucifer, fallen, finds diversion as a janitor in red tights. Ergo, I have proved something. I am in Hell and with Lucifer I know its secret happiness.
I weep and beat my head. And this other one calls me away. His shape grows larger and his darkness lifts me toward it. He pulls me from the couch. Talk to me, Mallare. I am mad, but talk to me and I will understand. Dear, shining Mallare ... Tell me 'no' and I will break my love. I will put my fist through the window out of which I watch for her. And it will be finished. "But I weep.
Very well, I am amused at your clownish terror even more than I was amused at your burlesque ecstasies. Tremble now for here is a Medusa, a Messalina come to destroy you. Whimper and grovel, but observe in your idiot cowardice how Mallare, the indifferent one, sits and smiles still supreme, still a spectator ravished by the dark comedy. "I could not resist this moment of triumph.
"But there is a way to be rid of her. Hate will darken the gleam of her body. She will vanish. But do I hate her? My madness is infatuated since it makes her so radiant. And who am I that I laugh at my madness? It is I who am insane. Not this other Eden maker whose mania I applauded. I, Mallare, tear at my hair. "I look in the mirror over my bed. Eyes red and gleaming look back at me.
I sigh. But it is one of the relaxations of God to pity Himself His uselessness. "Her talk came to an end and she raised her knife. Die or not, the thing was too incredible a farce to leave me unmoved. Yes, I laughed out of sheer delight. The drollery of this phantom hacking at Mallare with a non-existent dagger ... a mad windmill charging Don Quixote! Superb!
Word Of The Day
Others Looking