Wilson Harris

The Waiting Room

For Margaret,

Mario and Valerie Carboni

and

Denis Williams

It is a wretched thing to confess; but it is a very truth that not one word I ever utter can be taken for granted as an opinion growing out of my identical nature — how can it, when I have no nature?

JOHN KEATS (from a letter to Richard Woodhouse, October 1818)

The rhetorician would deceive his neighbours,

The sentimentalist himself, while art

Is but a vision of reality.

W. B. YEATS

… a moment of exhaustion, of appeasement, of absolution, and of something very near annihilation….

T. S. ELIOT

… in a dream with strange new speech:

Yourself you are as unaware as I

And fertile is the silence we endure.

MARTIN CARTER

Author’s Note

THE WAITING ROOM is based on the disjointed diary of the Forrestals which came into my hands many years ago. Susan Forrestal described this diary in one section as “her husband’s log book” but it would appear that she and possibly others were engaged in an art of fiction peculiar to themselves.

By fiction I do not mean to deny certain literal foundations but rather to affirm these absolutely as a mutual bank or living construction of events; those who collaborated accepted the enigma of such self-proportion and sought therefore to discover themselves concretely, as well as brokenly, in the mystery of a common vanishing life, day to day, year to year.

Susan suffered from an incurable complaint of the eyes and after three operations became almost totally blind at the age of forty. She was the mistress of a man who left her suddenly, it would appear, after a violent quarrel, and disappeared without trace. He remained nameless in the log book, though he may have, at one time, contributed certain entries which give details of his remarkable collection; ornaments and pieces of interest. Susan actually married someone else some time after this, who — from all that can be gleaned — was extremely solicitous for her well-being, but her original lover (with whom she obviously had had much in common) continued to haunt her (to put it in her own words) and to arouse within her a “living” crew or presence. And in fact “he” became — according to a peculiar entry in the diary—“hieroglyph and vessel of experience, the supreme positive fiction for me of nothingness.” By which she seemed to imply that a fiction which appears to grasp nothingness runs close to a freedom of reality which is somethingness.

Susan and her husband (mention of whom does not clearly occur until BOOK 2) died in an explosion which wrecked their home and much of their belongings, antiques, ornaments, etc. The log book survived, though certain sections were half-obliterated…. But this — while apparently depleting continuity — only served to enhance the essential composition of the manuscript that involved accidental deletions or deliberate erasures, reappraisals, marginal notes, dissociations of likely material (as well as associations of unlikely material) to confirm, and blend into, a natural medium of invocation in its own right.

And this disproportionate, sometimes shocking, condition, was the world in particular of Susan Forrestal, whose “operations” led her to accept her own “weakness” as a normal state which needed to confess its own broken existence to plumb and visualize its true relationship to a capacity for freedom.

I am only too well aware of my own shortcomings in attempting to uncover the curious unity I myself felt as existing between essential spirit or form and actual content of the log book.

W.H.

Postscript: In the text following I have used inverted commas around “he” to emphasize that the lover in Susan’s memory was indeed sheer phenomenon of sensibility rather than identical character in the conventional sense. Where I have neglected, however, to use such commas I trust the distinction is one which speaks for itself.

Book 1. The Void

ONE. Image of Conviction

Susan Forrestal was blind. She drew the palm of her hand slowly across her face as if to darken her own image, and to discover therein another sunof personality. “He”it was whomshe began to discern like the ancient seal — the ancient soulof love.

The sun fell on the slumbering brickwork of her flesh. Through the blind or curtained window where “he” sat and watched FROM WITHIN HER SKULL, the tops of vehicles could be seen as they passed, and still beyond — upon the pavement at the opposite side of the street — passersby were reflected in a shop window.

The life of one’s time affected one, “he” thought, like a restless image or span which seemed to pass within and beyond oneself and overlap each flickering stalemate of apprehension.

The sun burned and faded like a rag on fire, intensity, luminous paint, stone, canvas: a shred of emotion which gleamed for an instant and grew into an address one felt one had made or actually deciphered in the heart of chaos. It was a borrowed shelter of vision, flaked, holed, animated façade, instinctive shock of recognition, number, letter of gravity. It was the minted incongruous mask one wore, whose features as they stared through glass into the street were equally stamped with a bodily and ghostly design shared by immediate figures of acquaintance and remote figures of antiquity. This was “his” main legend and business, the business of preserving someone (like and unlike himself), of disguising someone whose proximity to himself was as nebulous as dust and adamant as stone.

“His” relationship then to himself (and to her) was baffling. And if it appeared at times to spark into being a certain solid community, there were other times when it all seemed to hang together by the veriest shred of fellowship, emotional relief as well as entanglement. It was a question of the marriage of roots as well as branches and arms of dispersal.

The day was now darkening as “he” appeared to reside within and yet adventure throughout her skull of the world. The mushroom of an umbrella swam within the shop window above the pavement. And thus — almost against “his” will — began “his” transportation into her subject and object, alteration in the proliferate colour of living and dead relationships, animation and inanimation, the shadow within the moved stone and without the immovable flesh. “He” had been seized by her fear of “him”. As if “he” stood naked and receptive within the room above the thoroughfare. And the growing shelter and embrace he began to suffer turned, as the clock died and still ticked, into a total presence he regained and knew. Like a garment — necessary and binding and absurd—“he” had forgotten he still carried or wore, whose pliant arms held him in the void of time until they became charged with constriction and feeling. To be naked and still clothed (as he felt himself to be) was to cling to a stem … extremity….

She sat now beside him in the waiting room (Susan drew the palm of her hand slowly across her face as if it had turned to stone)naked as he in the poverty of existence. *She drew him closer still within the skin of another incongruous skeleton they shared, flesh or wood, swimming in the glass of their shop window within and without. Antique display. Waiting room.*

It was the ornamental structure of her calves and a curious gravity of frame which appeared to strip her and give him bone and currency, blunt shadow, pregnant reality…. He felt he was being drawn into a revelation of unique and terrifying possession on entering the room and taking his place beside her. Was it the most curious rigidity of the past or most intimate fantasy of the present she fought and entertained?

The truth was she now believed he had been cornered and pursued by something or someone which paradoxically seemed to have vanished long before in the dust of the waiting room but now came trailing after. Ancient flesh or newborn shadow? Mushroom of sensibility? Or insensibility? He shuddered a little turning to glance at her…. Susan Forrestal. He spoke her name aloud as he endeavoured to keep her still at arm’s length. Arm’s length. Duel of the emotions. Thrust and counterthrust. He had last touched her ten or twelve years ago as if she had been indeed a painted cornerstone of wood. She was changed (Susan drew a rigid hand across the marble of her eyes) but not so changed he did not partly remember her. If he had failed to answer or come it might have been different but now it was too late. She drew him into her twin apparition, embodiment of hate and of love she felt he still imposed upon her — deformity of all conception — from the world within and the world without (one man’s tax of despair, another’s theft of love).

The extraordinary thing was that on seeing a reflection for sale—“he” himself had once skilfully engineered — pause for an instant in the shop window within and without, he could hardly believe his eyes that she was his and could have sworn it was a trick, livid brush stroke of imagination — invention of the waiting room. Why should it be … indeed if it were the one endless skull why should “he” dream that it—his own fiction, disembodied light ning feature — was intent in the heart of the street on finding “him” half-cowering in this shell of a room?

The staring rims of her dark glasses as she retreated within the waiting room were endowed now with devastation in turning toward him and he was on the point of protesting when he realized…. BLIND. He should have known but he had forgotten so many things which pinned him still to her in agony or relief. It flashed on him now why she had paused at the edge of memory (street of memory) as if to solicit him, head bowed a little so that he failed to detect in the uneven spaces of light the blank focus of her gaze … sightlessness he dreamed was sight: each fold of her flesh was but the inhibition of another garment drawn around her in bitter community of fantasy. BLIND. There was now no shade of uncertainty about it. He had forgotten so many landmarks he once knew.

TWO naked women she seemed to him now — one, signal of flesh he had himself half-forgotten and endured, the other, despair of stone he had himself long projected and dreamt. Blind tall hallucinated mistress or sail and intimate squat fetish or deck plunged and addressed each other as if they shared a drunken tide of self-commiseration — running in the veins of their world — for “him,” the substitute gender and vessel whose stern and transported shadow they now were, standing, it seemed, both above and below to crush him ultimately into any shape they desired.

But surely it was “he”, stone-deaf and forgetful within the maelstrom of years, who would crush “them” to vanishing point or silence, even though, in the self-same instant of immersion, he discerned the finger of lightning protest, conviction and conversion on every reflective line and lip.

Mill of the gods, storm, cripple, address, wrist of fog, fist of cloud: chemistry of fury which curled and singed the appearances of conceit and the shattered memory of the waiting room. For they—the naked women of dead fantasy — were staring at him now from within vanishing point, beam, pole, inflicted on them long, long ago. It was he, they declared, who was drunk and obscene, solipsistic. Not they. In fact it was he who had robbed them and broken them down into “his” image and crew and engrafted likeness. Ironic displacement. Thief. Thief. Thief of their womanhead. Metallic. Flinty. Their parts may have been glued to “his” person for all they knew. And yet he would have them believe he was indestructible. Erect. Capable of overshadowing them and offering them the only accommodation they desired, tangent and repose, liaison with a god.

Susan Forrestal indicted him out of her sightless eyes. Every other creature of consciousness moved and turned away into one ground of buried existence. But she — invested now by a phenomenon of illusion and uniform reserve or strength — put him, or raised him with her hand, into the dock … convertible void of the waiting room … harbour … courtroom….

TWO. Thief. Thief

The early afternoon faded and turned to gloom and twilight, faint ash, dust. The waiting room was now apparently empty save for its own instinctive burden of settlement: was it the blindness of Susan Forrestal which remained like a stumbling block upon which one fell and was stunned into deafness, archaic lover, sound proof wall? Was it absence, an absent mind one endured or a third nameless person still, voluminous cloak, clinging arm, whose abstract presence now encircled one in the ruin of all atmospheres? The waiting room was saturated with warm blood and chill: the dim senses of birth, the remote senses of death, the cold and hungry senses of love. A room one shared with the thief of all ages whose passage now was but a reflection one sees and even hears — the most intimate light footfall of nature; winter and spring. Thief. Thief. One stopped and listened to the emergent, the enraged, outcry of one’s blood, the blow of love, the transport of terror and reason by which one had been affected. Thief. Thief. One stopped again and stumbled upon feather and flood and listened for another disposition of assault. But now all was silent as the grave. One stretched one’s fingertips into the dark upon the flesh of things, animate wood or stone it seemed. Thief. The cry came shrill and clear like a whistling kettle on the boil within one’s skull. A faint tremor shook the room as if one’s naked metallic flesh had begun to glow against another’sp ark violent skin into the very thief of such brilliancy and harsh light, selfsame features of concussion. Thief. The cry spent itself again but the vapour of longing in each dying accent to appropriate (or steal) new breath, impulse, was everywhere in the grip of hollow memory. It was a holy, unholy alliance in which one had begun to lose and find oneself — looking, as it were, in all directions of the universal waiting room for the master thief of love, whose tool one was, the master stroke one had experienced of absent bitterness and ancient fury. One had tripped and been robbed of senseless sight and sound it seemed. Thief. Thief. One found oneself repeating the mechanical outcry as if one stood perhaps within true measure of overcoming all echo of catastrophe…. It was as if one were beginning to emerge at last out of the wild intransigent impulses of the waiting room (which had been clothed in numbness and loss) into the spirit of an age that was ONE (but how could one dare to breathe of such intimacy, flesh and unity…?)

THREE. Apple of the Eye

For Susan Forrestal the intimate waiting room she discerned as she touched the walls around her carried “his” reflection: blur, unpredictable stove, hot, sometimes cold to touch. She occasionally shrank from herself (or himself), started or stopped … sparks of fire…. Three eye operations within the past seven years left her upon a curious threshold, ledge of night, edge of dawn. The waiting room became his cinder of imagination and this alphabet of flame shone where she drew each outline with her darkest pencil.

All things and persons — however remote and apprehensive — now grew to be tipped by his spirit. Whether indeed it was he who had stolen the blaze of light from her, or she who had stricken him down unawares so that he tasted unconscious rage, like the truly anthropomorphic deaf and dumb, was the blunt issue on which they were joined. Constellated. Like blotting paper, eaten at the edges with black absorption but lucid in the middle where it soaked the drawn film of the sky, astronomical book, discontents of air, earth, water.

Pregnant silhouette. He saw she now addressed him — in fact accused him of being the one who had raped her. The One…. It was grotesque quarry, coincidence, feature of conception, line and riddle, hunter as well as hunted, down the years.

Pregnant. He read the self-portrait of accusation with acute difficulty. For she drew him and yet appeared, at the same time, to draw away from him into the very reticence of fury. Pregnant, thief, love.

Susan lit a cigarette, burnt a hole in the page. She felt the fertile ash on her fingers (and of her fingers), primitive and mnemonic device like seed or grain which clung to her even as it fell on the floor into instinctive shapes or presentiments, intricate design, flower and leaf. Potent violent mysterious plunge…. She tried to conceive her almost intangible cloud of images as a dense broadcast in which she too was minutely and remotely involved, until this seemed to glow again into the sun inadvertently planted upon her own flesh: naked brilliancy and hollow illusion, outward presence and sunken conviction — a sliced apple which had been cut to remove declivities in the surface. Susan felt all at once the sharpest prick of the knife and with each drop of blood there grew a transfusion of energy from her veins into his stamp or die. She wanted to conceive such an extreme but true vision of him. And in point of fact — there it was—Pregnant again after all these years.

She recalled the entry she had herself made in the log book a long time ago. One signal word: pregnant. to which now she added … again after all these years. Pressure of a fingernail upon a blank sheet … after all these years.

She groped for a match, lit another blind cigarette, reflecting that “he” had instinctively raped her like a man who beheld nothing but the apple of his eye tricked out in his own illumination and deceptive colours, flesh-tinted, beautiful.

IT WAS NIGHT. The scene had not merely changed but assumed its true and literal (mutual) proportions. NIGHT.

On the other hand, on the other side of the kingdom of space where he stood observing her — the other side of the waiting room — a hair’s breadth away from her — IT WAS MORNING.

MORNING. A cool wind, transparent skirts, blew along the paradoxical street, self-deceptive bubble within which at that early fluid but constellated hour no one yet truly stood in the body of “his” room and proud constitution but the daily ornament in her sky blue dress kneeling to scrub the floor. Morning woman. Antique pail. Dripping cloth. In the street beneath him where she kneeled like a self-created fetish — half-human, half-edifice — the traffic of solipsis began to pour as if it instinctively conceived itself a glittering extension of her drapery and arm.

The shop window against the pavement Susan knew — or thought she knew from past experience — as she touched the sights of her own world, now shone with a curious awakening look, transparent eyelid, half-dreaming lust still within the imaginations of night. One almost felt oneself looking through and beyond a monumental spell — with his eyes of morning as well as hers of night — into a cloud, half-shadow, half-substance, late room, early capacity. But which it was no one could tell save that this was an unburdened place within which one saw oneself transcribed, translated, in an instant of arousal: nodding without a trace of doubt to the other unassuming self, unenviable reflection…. Unenviable reflection. There lay outcry and snag, element of impersonality, uncertainty, anonymity which had not apparently registered before. And one shrank all at once from what could be an aspect of obliteration — obliteration of the bubble of personality in the ornament of love. Obliteration of the bubble of pride in the ornament of glory. It was as if a subtle explosion — orgasm — had rent both the dark and light flesh of the waiting-room and the flotsam and jetsam one endured became a tributary offering, spiritual reversal, mainstream whose course enveloped one in the very gulf of presence. The broken reflective ornament one saw — unenviable, climacteric, unassuming, close as one’s skin, one’s sun — was the ambivalent reflection of a servant within which to endure awakening flood, traffic, divine summons, necessity, freedom or servitude which one dreamt to uphold or shatter, and through which one was being religiously and obscurely stripped and confronted by the fetish of the void….

FOUR. Silence Please

Susan placed one finger upon her lips to invoke silence and to remind “him” that in the realm of things he once claimed to govern he, too, had been imposed upon by himself to reflect a sphere of growing deafness within, stone deafness without, after all. And further (she declared) it must surely now dawn on him, as the most disturbing feature of all, that he was becoming literally deaf, in a clamorous way, to the very distinction of silence he first thought to treasure and contain within the hieroglyphics of space, living room.

SILENCE PLEASE. But even as she uttered the words her material command turned into distraught echoes of old, his study of persuasion and withdrawal. Battering ram.

Once again — as though to prove something to himself—“he” shut his eyes in a compulsive attempt to blot out the siege of reflection in morning creature and night’s room, the siege of distraction in feminine mould, drawn curtain, but discerned in the depths of such stony indulgence on his part — such rigid assumption of himself — what looked like a frail but monumental light, the insane clatter of silk as it fell to the floor; stocking; manuscript or flesh.

Articles of memory. Lion of the void. Antelope of wood. Horn of the desert upon which had been carved the fauna and flora of lust. Was it his emblematic bristle, green model and tree, or her innocent crest, toppling trunk, flag and leaf, which deflected them — and him once again — from containing silence and fulfilment? It was as if he embraced her still in his own loud echoing and continuous stamp or fall — sexual rage of the skin within which he recalled exercising a razor upon himself until the bark of adolescence cracked and vanished (as though it had never truly existed save as a mirage of consciousness) and a darker prickly mask emerged — an irritable conjunction of roots which fired his expression (or hers?) into treacherous lines, subsidence … stranger … older … stranger…. What treachery … decline … resided in one’s appearance, what degeneracy of feature, alienation, colour, hair, bone…. He smiled nevertheless at himself as at the blast of pleasure and promise he had become. Her clinging substitute. Pilot of maturity. Hirsute tower, bearded premises. Cliff-top. Stone and vessel of flesh. And the debris of the universal waiting room — traffic of restraint and potency — acquired a new rough note, harsh glare, gear, slant, expression.

SILENCE PLEASE. The time had come to insert key into lock. Shut the metallic disembowelled stranger in. Bell and voice. Gaoler of and gaoled sensibilities. It was an architecture of baffled, indeed baffling, emotional authority in which he was involved, trapped far back by his own devices in the shout and gold of person and thing.

He drew close to her — stricken by an ornamental blur of faces — none of which truly resembled hers — faceless public. He was filled all at once with rage at his own incapacity. Might as well strike out. Rape in broad daylight. Susan shook — as if she suffered, once again, his assault upon her — half-shuddering,half-contemptuousnodlike one who welcomed her own pencil of fate — blind man’s buff, the perverse gameof love.

A stone’s throw from the cottage in which she lived (was it twelve or twenty years ago … adamant centuries past or still to come … in an unexplored present, unbroken future) one came abruptly upon the edge of the land. He inserted his hearing aid and grew slowly aware of the sound of the depths, coming, it seemed, from an inestimable distance, a universe of muffled, muffling direction. The sea was the blueness of the sky, foaming white far under him around each black penis of rock constellated in the uncanny wilderness of space. He felt himself quiver like a bat’s wing upon sheer cliff — radar fantasy — and discovered a flowering plant lying crushed beneath him, blue petal, dark veins, stars, spatula of mesmerism, the minute grasp of hand and fingers, intimate overwhelming design.

Rape in broad daylight. Had she, in fact, inveigled him to dwell within her — within his assault upon her, crushed petal, living room, so that now, long after the obscure kinship of event, he still found himself suspended in her filament of reverie, spider’s root, blind web, ear of memory? The phenomenal page of the past upon which he was drawn to peer, grew into the very present chest of cliff upon which he had followed her along a compulsive path before prostrating himself upon the very brink, lip, heart in mouth, rage, hallucination, nerves of the sea. He turned and tried to shout but where he lay flat on the ground it was no longer possible to see the elusive echo, mound or house into which she (the one he stalked) had vanished as if into the ground — wave of land beneath him. Her sweat — not his — began to roll into his eyes: subtle prominence, configuration, landscape, globe or bead of moisture in himself whose translucency or transparency … recollection … was chained to a surf of elements.

The agonizing inconsistency was the way she dissolved into everything and nothing but existed still to remonstrate with him. Sound of fate (echo sounder rather than bellow), sightless outcry, fathom rather than ascendancy. One moment she would be there — actively here (and he knew, every time, it would all happen again and again in numerous guises, disguises) — large as life, instinct with blood, incarnation of desire — but in another void or shape she would retire into the broken texture of himself and he would come to know himself deprived of everything he possessed, and empty of the rigid datum or value within her at which he flung himself, introspective, retrospective line, grasp. Rape in broad daylight.

SILENCE PLEASE. How he longed to hold her within the dearest conviction of abandonment of the senses, as something utterly priceless and beyond the self-advertisements of beauty or the shop window of the universe. But even as he dreamed to succumb to the self-surrender of everything she drew him still to her as before along a vulgar track, cement of consciousness … pricked … reflected … out of the depths. Echo sounder. Defective hearing aid. One’s poor involuntary humanity — what ambivalent props, tap, cane, adventitious root one grew to clutch, stand in need of … until these became in turn a senseless soul, barrier.

*

He leaned on his elbow (as upon a crooked stick). The sky was turning misty as glass and the clouds flitted like milk dissolving upon a window-pane though still occupying their own grain of pallor, destiny, soul of light. She summoned him still, the flitting command of vanished youth, mushroom of sensibility. Now “he” shrank from her in the waiting room — as from brooding ornament, prison, hell — but then (long ago) he could have sworn he knew what it was she justly and truly and freely saw in him. He could have sworn she was the reciprocal one he would follow to the ends of the earth, pick out of every crowd, every street, every age. And that it was she — silhouetted against time — who expressed her choice of fulfilment in him, even though he lay on the very tip of inconsistency and isolation … buried in her and his lengthening cruel design, self-deceptive wraith of desire upon bottomless wraith…. WHEN DARKNESS FELL HE WOULD ARISE AND SMASH THE DEVIL OF A DOOR.

*

But before darkness fell with his explosive assault on her, they would retrace their steps farther back still in time towards another potential threshold of the kingdom (or territory) of love. Promissory unit. Razor’s edge — sculpture and renaissance of youth. Would it ever be possible to say when it was he had given her, or been given by her, the very first vivid confused stab upon which overlapping present and past — meaningful presence—suddenly became an acute convergence of reality, an obsession with distance which she now appeared to abolish?

Was it upon his descending wave, her trough, his unlikely perch, fugitive epitaph, cliff-top? Was it an antique face they equally shared, groomed, polished to perfection upon the timeless meteoric landscape of the dead — their common step towards ancient self-portrait and vessel … cargo and pathos of fashion, rage for — indeed quest of — immortal youth? She was the earliest trigger he recalled he possessed — emotional target, residual goal within an immemorial span, phenomenal pursuit…. She drew him now so close to her he could see once again the light on her face — the faintest shudder of her lips, a kind of crackling, even wooden, darkness issuing from her mouth which made the reflection of her skin — neck and cheek — glow like a shade which was neither the coal of breath nor the fire of spirit.

He wanted to touch her, caress her but she became all of a sudden (to his astonishment) a fury he had not expected to find, a trigger of fury he had himself sprung into existence and yet not truly bargained for. The soul of love. Had she actually spoken the words out aloud like a creature of curious motivation, robot of spirit? The soul of love. Such unearthly venom, self-abandon, self-hate. Such an expression — ancient and devouring — such an aim and assumption of being — was incredible, archaic: was it the daemon of all possession (and dispossession) at her side in the faceless throng of the universe whom he had overlooked and to whom she spoke? For how could he dare to believe it was he, rather than another, whom she dreamt to invest with the blast of memory? Was it the purest ricochet of fantasy? Had he misread the frame of her lips? Was he merely her ironical substitute — SILENCE PLEASE — shattering and loud like the ornamental cultivation of the deaf, hammer of deity, consciousness?

Susan made an involuntary gesture upon the page of her book to her slave and god as though to push him away from her at the very moment of explosive climax: it was she after all who feared him — not “he” her — feared infection by him (or impregnation by him) with an instrument of alarm, a train of consequences she had herself engendered. She warned him with all the force at her command to stay away from her, as if to confirm once again within him the trigger of fury he had not bargained for.

The time for an ultimate target of invocation within her was not yet ripe. The bark of upheaval — hollow stress of unity, trunk of ages — was adamant as stone. The thaw was still to come. The fruit was still hard and green, buried in the rind, antique muse of the field, punishment of the wheat, corn, rice. The scythe of the sun flashed — dumb flare, cannon, instrument — but the harvest remained an enigma.

A famine of spirits blazed in their very facile resemblances whether skin, leaf, petal, brow, eye, lake. And even as he beheld her — or thought he beheld her in a glimmering crowd of stars — he was doubly conscious of her withdrawal into his ignorance of her naked material, immaterial proportions. She had just crossed a dent and crack in sky or pavement, hesitated, caught, forced to struggle: bend forward abruptly, like a woman in the fields, intent on a furrow and plant — the terrestrial root and model of which she had herself half-driven, half-ground into him until it almost seemed to grip him like her hallucination and plea, elongated heel, spur, compulsive arch, half-branch, half-step, inverted privilege of community to which he clung. And which he now sought to depict as the phenomenal circuit of fear and love engendered by her in him. Technology of the soul. Hearing aid or pickaxe. Scythe or gun. Rust of the senses. Invention. Madonna of the fields. Thus did it dawn on him that he had suffered a partial eclipse, the eclipse of god, and that this was the humiliating design she imposed on him as a kind of salutary rebuff and accommodation of incapacity at the same time. It was as if in pushing him away she still continued to draw him up into her compromise with reality. She knew she was blind and must learn to conceive of him in a manner consistent with a true rehearsal of her own limited powers of freedom and explosive actuality.

*

BLIND. She drew her hand across her eyes all at once with an exploratory gesture, and the arch of visionary time upon which “he” still clung to her — as she stood transfixed above him — shook with the administration of her vicarious blow that seemed to dismantle the very mould of appearances around her.

The premature die of the waiting room turned into a mint of shadow, broken ornament, crumpled bedclothes. Susan lit a match and placed it against the eyes of the “living” doll still lying at her feet. She felt the sharp flame clutch at the sensitive rim of his flesh and let a burnt splinter fall which matched the shudder of lips that had grown dumb. If she was blind it was fitting that he should be dumb: the equal blow of necessity which illuminates the frontier between the human and the divine — between man and god — in every familiar, now unfamiliar, prison of circumstance, art or labour.

Susan let her hand fall again with brutal resignation upon the blackened fetish of the log-book. It seemed to her that “his” anatomy parted instantly and ceased to be the belly of cloth she still remembered lying against her feet — pillow or doll: in fact nothing stood there now but a handful of mere skinny sailing pages half-torn from their covers — broken lines which one surmised had been ruled for rib and bone. And furthermore — upon receiving her blow of circumstance — his hallucinated blood, that had hardened at one stage into original ink over the passage of time, could do no more now but outline a frail residue of brittleness which permitted each word of flesh to crumble into dust.

Yet even so Susan did not mourn their (or his) material departure: if she were to be held guilty and responsible for incapsulating some portion of her log-book into the void it seemed she had done the right and true thing, after all, and that this shattered fragment and image would return and grow ultimately to express a genuine faintness of spirit like the rarest body of atmosphere imaginable to confirm those immaterial and conflicting rumours of relationship between creatures whose bodily similarity and uniformity — profession or status — served to divide (whereas one would have thought it would have united) them in their interests….

There was the vestige of a sneer on her lips. BITCH! “He” spat the word at her. The heartlessness and rage she exhibited, he knew, was, on one hand, a blow struck at a certain notion (which had long exercised their minds) — curious superstructure of love and prestige — and, on the other, it remained a compulsive invitation to him to grapple with her (and liberate her) within a world of possibilities — a most real and unpretentious waiting room of self-surrender or community which was beginning to intoxicate her, mind and limb. Almost, without perceiving it, she was drunk. Drunk with the conquest and constellation of herself — the marriage of “his” undreamt-of freedom to the living fact of her helplessness. But (this was the trap) — in endeavouring to rehearse such a unique framework of possibilities — she overemphasized the role of domination, target of fascination from which she sought to distance herself like the devil’s conceit with what seemed now not hers but entirely his creation — a puppet whose need to admire and be admired elevated one, and therefore led one into a repudiation of scale, the perversity of gift or function.

SHARP THUNDERING KNOCK ON THE DOOR. Ancient cottage. Blow of the void. Was it a storm hammering the cliff, battering ram? SILENCE PLEASE. Listen…. Drunk, Lurched into the room. She lifted her fist and struck — as he had — was it ten or twelve or twenty years ago? … AS HE HAD…. Log-book. Vessel. Captain of memory. IT WAS HE.

*

His eyes glistened with something of the sky they had absorbed. The clouds fitted like milk dissolving upon a window-pane…. His expression darkened into the reproach of years (it was not he who had broken in upon her but she who had enveloped him) — darkened into her own breath — an emotional shade whose self-contained vapour of blindness ascended from the soles of her feet where she wished to inveigle him to lie, in the womb of time, misshapen and submissive — obscure constellation: ascended and occupied both the boot of the present hour and the crown or violent ridge of past years.

The constellation of storm, no longer concealed, burst upon her: living air—“his” shadow of cloud which she drew within its ephemeral landscape of fact. Dust in her nostrils, paint, frail burning odour, skin, flesh (pores upon one’s own hand). SHARP THUNDERING KNOCK ON THE DOOR. Such a blast it threatened to capsize every image of control.

And yet it was not simply this: not merely the loss of control she now began to suffer — the loss of individual elements and powers. It was the repudiation of everything she once thought she knew or had created for herself — the repudiation of every basis and pattern of one-sided reference — the eclipse she had invoked (eclipse of her judgment this time, not his), counter-thrust of the void.

Susan fished for the glasses which she had laid aside an hour or two ago. She wanted to cover the singular nakedness of her eyes. It was a grotesque confession: the plunge she had made into a unique theatre of rehearsal, explosive rehearsal, had set up a displacement of fluid bodies akin to vortices of memory she had not fully anticipated. The ebony spectacles she donned once again — in the light of his sudden thrust at her, mesmerism of nakedness, naked bone, naked brow — gleamed with skeletal surfaces upon which the faintest lightnings of time ran and still glowed out of the storm of the heart….

Ran and still glowed within the black sky and the black sea. The frame of the sky was as black as the pool of the sea. Susan moved — inclined her head a little and listened to the sudden disconcerting impact of silence — savage as a blowin itself — which had fallen all at once upon her in the waiting room. Where in Christ’s name was he? The storm raged but the void of distance, the joint spectacle of inner and outer sensation, became so enormous it translated the language of action into species of metamorphosis. Species of fiction and freedom whose blood ran into the storm which now possessed an unearthly stillness: macrocosmic outlines they were — naked breast, naked bone — whose reduction to lightning filaments of memory broke the coarse spell and clamour of the senses as well as the psychological rigidity and ultimatum of space.

The sea and the sky became his spectacles as well as hers within which a new intercourse of the gods began, involving and dismantling every former blockade of vision. He indeed had instinctively seen her in this overwhelming but transcendental light — the buried light of the muse — and she (within the mutual shadow of eclipse) had seen him in the selfsame circuit of conviction — the light of a god. It was this which drew him to her in the very beginning — the lightning of breath—the faintest shudder of her lips, a kind of crackling, even wooden, darkness issuing from her mouth which made the reflection of her skin — neckand cheek — glow like a shade which was neither the coal of breath nor the fire of spirit.

And it was as if in that original and indelible beginning — in the heartless crumb and melting-pot of the world — that he sought to grapple with her still and constrain her to a function of demand she resisted now with all the fury on earth at her command. Now and within the ancient spiral of her breath (half-curse, half-prayer) he discerned afresh the drapery of the past through which he sought to exercise the ritual of brute force upon her and she the stroke of bestial eclipse upon him.

The extraordinary fascination allied to curious terror of the ancient storm sprang from a peculiar helplessness, an order of helplessness which matched, like instantaneous stroke and flare, the involuntary conversion and obliteration of every role, fixture and preconception within himself. For even as she lay beneath him (or appeared to lie beneath him) in lightning upheaval and distress — he could not yet bring himself to believe that it was he who had inflicted this explosive burden upon her. And in fact he knew he was as helpless as she and in process of being informed by her about himself as if she were his most intimate victim or soul and companion in debauchery, whose visualization of the spectacle of the past made him feel he had no alternative but to shrink in ultimate horror from himself.

She it was who sought to address him and inform him of another which was, after all, no one but himself yet whom he still could not recall…. It was she indeed whose design it was to spare him nothing of the incredible role he had played. Drunk. Lurched into the room.

Incredible because the very conception of himself in such a void of memory seemed a compulsion to endorse the worst suspicions of himself he could entertain, chronic and violent assumption of himself in all eternity — bewildering pre-judgment as well as post-judgment of one’s own unfamiliar conduct. What principle was there, after all, he asked himself, which would take inevitable ascendancy over one — in the absence of one’s self-possession or grip or control — but the exercise of debauchery, degeneracy of conduct?

He was utterly convinced of the degradation and hopelessness of ultimate exposure which now lay before him, when there began to flash into view the very recklessness of grace, species of grace, blood of the elements, rage for beauty beyond every mould of refinement he had once assiduously cultivated that now lay shattered on the floor.

Drunk. Lurched into the room. THE VERY RECKLESS SPECIES OF GRACE. His countenance grew now almost black with astonishment at its own revelation of the beauty of freedom residing at the very heart of the storm: he felt himself part of the wildest glow upon the spectacles of air and water, like an incalculable and neutral maternal vessel of all the ages within whom and which an indestructible wave of emotion broke his chain (as well as hers) — shattered his role (as well as hers) of indispensable ruling function they shared and worshipped—broke in some uncertain degree the grip of such an assumption and ushered him with a magnanimity and authority he fleetingly glimpsed into her void of colour — their void of the crowd of instinct — broken mould of cruel refinement — sheer precipice of action upon the timeless thrust and crest of which he ran like a white fire, whiter than snow. Or rather she it was who sped before him in the waiting room upon each black wave….

SUSAN DREW HIS FINGERTIPS ACROSS THE GLASS OF HER EYES to erase the trail of hallucination, cloven ground of the sea, within each stricken ornament on the floor, fractured member and crew. INCREDIBLE THAT IN THE MIDST OF AN EXPLOSION — EXPLOSION OF PREMISES — such involuntary remorse and tenderness (on his part as well as hers) became the cradle of fantasy, paint of restoration, instinct for depth and survival: uncanny depth, living distance, joints of catastrophe, the mesmerism of being fractured and remaining whole. She drew closer to him now, it seemed, than ever before, to substantiate an economic and viable truth or unity within a supreme fiction, annihilation: food of the gods: morsels of divinity. Mill of the gods whose trail — common (or was it uncommon?) ground, iota of landscape and skyscape — evoked now the living grain of reality. She began to recall, in limitless, ambivalent detail, all over again, the feud with him she had endured….

The antique shop which stood at the corner of Memoir Street belonged to her but he too had invested capital in it. Then bitten by the sun, fever of restlessness, they arranged for a mortgage. Wild goose chase. Atlantic. Atlantis. He was a rolling stone, as she then was…. Across the “broken” landscape of the years he seemed now — more than ever — part and parcel of each burning prick once again in her eye. Prick of curiosity, foundation, feather and stone. Doctor and lover rolled into one, half-instrument, half-captain. Voyage of convalescence he instigated and supported after her first (or was it her last?) operation.

And indeed from first to last — between his masked crew of spliced assumptions and hers — they appeared equally to smile (as if they tolerated each other’s lust or love) and snarl like jealous agents and conspirators whose pilot trade and industry, jigsaw of the affections — even when supported by apparent community of interests — still aroused fierce reflections of ideal control or function and, in consequence, bred a continuous cycle of self-contempt, dread of — hostility towards — the other. They were similar in this blind and moody sculpture of reaction, friction and masthead, axe and chip.

And within the ancient vessel and metropolis of the storm, flying crumb, they appeared locked in a paradoxical struggle for the unbroken life-blood of freedom: commanding gulf (blunt features, levers and lovers) — servile gulf (submissive features, lovers and levers) — contractual gulf (show window, charm, fashion, mime, execution…).

This was the bewildering and continuous duel of powers — fetish of beauty — in which they were involved: the enormous irrationality of unruled (or unruling) sensibility and the “broken” need and obsession for a logic of crippled reassurance, absolute power, even if that meant the shattered and shattering appearances of a tyranny of the damned.

“Broken” masthead of execution. Unwinking eye, winking light….

“Broken” masthead of love. Technical illumination of the soul, primitive darkness of the body….

“Broken” snapshot of consciousness. SHE LAY WITHIN HIS OPERATING THEATRE. Doctor and lover rolled into one. He approached her, pistol in hand, dealer in menaces and self-deceptions whose object it was to sell her to the highest bidder — shatter her, riddle her, grind her — lens as well as drum, eye of crystal and crunch of bone, deck of reality. Ship of illusion. And she appeared to submit to him — to his craft of fire and nature — in order to unfurl a new sail and conviction: she drew him in, held him up, thicket of storm, as if he were her eternal sculpture of overcoming fear, and she his eternal flag and quarry — LADY OF THE BEASTS.

FIVE. The Operation

The sensation she recalled was pain, aftermath of living excision, of unconscious event, post-anaesthetic, post-soporific — waking pain (instinct with its own dreaming or dreamless iconography) — acute confrontation between buried past and revival in the present. He had operated upon her eyes: her lips moved addressing “him” as if he were the man in question — one Dr. Sage. Sage to Sibyl. Wizard to witch. Master to mistress. Fiend to bitch. Instrument. Susan…. In the ricochet and echo of dreams — momentum, career, medium of arousal as well as extinction, operating theatre as well as waiting room — he appeared to her armed with unseemly pistol and knife. The stone of the sun flashed, assaulted her, ripped the veil, altered the curtains of attention, texture of station and flight. It was as if the cloven world she truly saw in the remote distance, far beneath the blind of names, assumptions, letters of invocation, self-created skies or roof of constellation, god’s hair or flesh, was at first entirely masked, snowbound. Snowbound, masked and still studded with crystal self-deception, eyes or hollows of clarity. For all she knew she may have been flung back into an early premature dawn, ancient of suns. Like a vain flag unfurled as one flew north over a winter landscape which slept after the cruel fantasy of the tropics, relative seal or glare. Stricken blind. Iceball or eyeball. In which she felt the incongruous root of memory — green stem or leaf. Incongruous marriage of sensations — spiked heel, pool…. It was the spell of uncanny investiture, the archaic compulsion — apparent bewilderment — of the soul — rib of male and female — needle of doctor and patient, joystick … pilot … space …. The blazing abstract scarof instrumental day now slowly faded into darkness, thiefof night or creation, whomshe loved and hated in turnwith all the violence of separate convictions….

SLOWLY FADED…. And yet the waking “dying” pain — invoked out of the blissful operation of “living” unconsciousness to assume the proportions of a phantom globe, airless retina and property — so possessed and overshadowed her it seemed she stood now on an acute threshold of the cavern of reality which in itself would never succumb to distraction or disorder (or to attraction and order, technical fury, absolute mould, apple of one’s eye) within its own unpredictable room, unearthly function, blaze….

No wonder as the seal of light was torn, the ornamental atmosphere and curtain rent, that the very tatters and figments of recollection … preconception … seemed to wave and float within and above an essential bareness of conception, glimpsed — for the first incredible time — but this, too, in its inner conviction of reality, was slowly descending into the abstract blaze of solid darkness — immensity of frail distinction.

It was this distinctive night … light … the most curious awareness of self-deception, if self-deception it was, bordering as it did upon the black sail of reality — which cast a dying illumination upon a once familiar (now unfamiliar) series of landscape carved by the axe of the sea, rolling marble of ocean, knife-line of the rivers — iodine and grain of earth. Dying wound of illumination and yet the strange thing was that there emerged a frailty of convertible properties like a healing thread … design … which seemed to endure and outlast every shattered bone or region, stone or age, buried frontier or condition. How (the question arose) to accept such a scale of “dying” colours which seemed to obliterate all its former visionary purposes or motives and, in fact, to subsist upon the uprooted nail or canvas with which it bled and suffered…. It was as if one could point brush, fire palette, rifle carpet, flag, banner, curtain into the blurred shot of place — accumulations of flame and light so brilliant one learnt afresh the “blindness” of the sun; or plaster of cement that one greyed and entered a realm of mists like disconcerting rain, neither landfall nor waterfall but a ghostly mint — treasure—mirage of extinguished one—existential of the rain bow….

NEITHER LANDFALL NOR WATERFALL … but teardrop … existential of the rainbow — black sail upon which or against which one no longer appeared to fly … only to burrow, crawl…. In fact not even burrow, crawl, but cling … indistinct well, spectral wave, current, emotion. Drawn (was it up or down gravity’s blind face?) … held upon the fixed coil and station of the whirlpool … lip … blur … vacancy or eye … window-pane or ledge upon which, as one stood momentarily still within the fastness of space, the globule of the universe trembled and ran. Incredible that such an ancient feature — wellspring, singular tear — survived like indestructible evanescence, fragility, body of feeling whose medium or intangible vessel of premises was always in process of being refurbished or reclaimed within an imperceptible borderline…. Was it north or south, east or west, into which (or out of which) one broke and flew?

The uncertainty of shape or direction — ancient vessel, model of creation, ark or covenant — sprang out of an immaterial conviction, so residual and deeply entrenched (in spite of every material overlapping and formal protest to the contrary) that it acted like a hidden spur as well as naked pole, a dynamic and static concretion to which one surrendered oneself as to a “black” pilot, weathered masthead, phantom of flesh within but beyond the sound of flesh, the echo of self-regard, song of the sirens…. One embraced and was held in turn by this “deaf” mast to which one was truly bound and secured within the elements of distraction, paradoxical structure of liberation, and within a certain undefinable radius of which — acute coherence and conversion of the soul — lay the choirs of vision — sheer tenacity (even profane curiosity) of the “awakened” eye within the latent crash and operation of darkness, sheer relative beam, heavy and light, gravity as well as ironic weightlessness….

Out of this crash of darkness began to emerge one’s “light” craft … billow of the senses: lightning spar … canvas of surf unfurled … in the very teeth … grinding fury, thunder of engines … sea. How to reconcile mouth of the void with technical sail — eye of salvation with lifeline of fury? One was grateful — in the midst of everything — that one had submitted oneself to be nailed to negative anthropomorphic crew (eclipse of sight — or was it sound?) within which one was freed from the self-indulgent tune and frame of disaster. Film upon one’s eye. The shock of seeing one’s helplessness, in all proliferation, outlined and displayed as never before turned the submergence of reality into steadfast captain and ancient member … crew.

ANCIENT MEMBER — CREW…. What a violent contradiction of terms (fate and choice — vocation of unbridgeable consciousness) one relied upon for levels of support …. Or was it stunned erection, reflex of unconsciousness, to which one was truly (and unfathomably) bent and related as to a vanished spirit which still witnessed for community?

These were the two faces — appearing never to compensate but to cancel each other — whose confrontation, nevertheless, involved the birth or issue of operative pilot, soul … darkening climax…. Was this the ideal emergency and commission of fear — one desired above all persons and things — to prompt reaction within the vulgar senses towards uniform restraint, constraint, half-blissful stupor? Or was it an abstract precipitation — pure fact — omission — vacancy — which sustained and provided every composition of duress and sensibility with unpredictable relief? …

It was as if … moving upon a calm sea or under a calm sky — upon which or within which choice and fate seemed identical — one grew into one’s vessel and crew of self-deception. Mushroom. Umbrella. Madonna of the Becalmed. In a field of glass no longer dark but resplendent …. The loam of the earth was slipping from her — Madonna of the Plough of the Sea—supremely captive, supremely becalmed, stroked by the tiller of the sun…. the sword of the void … the spit of her own clear element…. Spit …. Snarl…. Something fled … vanished…. Wildcat of earthen fury or cultivation of elemental spirit? Involuntary sail of consciousness or voluntary ground of unconsciousness — to uphold her, after all, in total perspective … cruel grace … relief? Madonnaof the Sword and the Sun.

SOMETHING FLED. VANISHED. Wildcat of earthen fury or cultivation of elemental seas and spirits?

Blatant … or instinctive … relationship?

Feminine instrument (investiture and sheath) or masculine paint (community of blood)?

Faces of re-creation, multiform puncture or nebulous brute each thought helplessly (or sought mindlessly) to skin … slay … domesticate … harness … appoint … scratch — patch — captain and shroud of their world.

SOMETHING FLED: headlong plunge, thread of weight …. The elements were stitched into streaming harness of commotion or commanding shock of station.

THE OPERATION WITHIN AND WITHOUT MASTHEAD HAD BEEN TECHNICALLY SUCCESSFUL — and naked pupil — eye of the sword — razor — thrust and severance, cross-section, waiting room — had come alive — primitive sun and reflection — deaf shield, animal mirror … perception of a dying scale which became the essential flash of new faculties within pregnant eye (which was “his” doing, after all) and crumbling pupil (which was her conviction, after all, of the unwilling threshold and conversion of the dramatis personae of the universe).

THE OPERATION HAD BEEN TECHNICALLY SUCCESSFUL — and though the progress one face made towards the other (slice of darkness towards pinpoint of light) appeared like a voyage of immaterial consolidation, it was equally consistent with a focus of flitting or submerged, even subservient, members of one body sometimes dense and reflective, streaming glass; sometimes bordering upon native crowd and crouch — the brute soul of solipsis: and if indeed “he” (the scaffolding of illusion she erected) appeared now to be in process of freeing her within a melting body, spiriting her towards him across a void of conception, deck, seal, lip of the abyss — it was because her fluttering breath became his flag of recension within capital and hieroglyph of flesh.

And his fluttering breath in turn — so curiously and indissolubly nailed to hers — could not fail to signal the community of herself in another raining and moving light of infinite sharpness allied to flight and dispersal, a crumpled knife or ball of flesh, a rag to be worn for its ultimate edge and frailty of condition. And this — in the very act of its being discarded, consigned to the domestic rubbish heap, as it were — served to wipe the monument of her eyes … clean…. Misconception of god … man … beast. It was a whisper, half-prayer, half-curse, which crossed her lips like fracture or paint. Blessing invoked as well as omen recalled. How had she once tricked herself into believing that he had been nothing from the very beginning but her tool and plaything?

TOOL. She shuddered with the gesture of one coveted and disrobed by an artist of death whom she had created at the heart of obsession: as if she had so habituated herself to manipulating him to mechanical perfection, erosive design — technical spirit, blood — that it was she who became addicted to his ground of nothingness — derelict machinery and salvage of response … serial puppet. Ironical master, passive mistress. Unseen hand shaped by and shaping the grind of the elements. Craft of possession and dispossession. It seemed now the pregnant compass, waiting room, she occupied — strewn by the ruined poles and messengers of love — had been freed and inscribed by him, after all, within and upon accumulative agency (material of destiny) so that, in clinging to him as to a bank of emotion, she grew to wait upon him — as upon the mill of god — for the denigration of all impoverishment and force — even if he were still her heraldic plaything … swine … signal load: and thus became the cargo and crew of what he was — minutiae of dense participation (representative divinity), terrifying oracle — degenerate snout and transcendental grain, heart of wood supporting him, since it discerned itself to be part and parcel of every involuntary member of his singing frame in a deaf universe.

Dr. Sage to Susan. Penelope. Circe. SOMETHING FLED. Shattered log-book. Jigsaw of the affections….

SIX. Thing

It was a curious vessel — mnemonic device — within the medium of which each “face” clung to the other like unwitting companions of ageless community. She it was who had descended into (or risen out of) his “deaf” crew and all things now appeared to have been wound into him as though to a voice above and below which exercised one soul of conviction. Resonance…. Bond…. Thing…. It was the only thread of ascent and descent into the hold of creation she knew to prompt him to bear the echoing coil of “herself” she drew like the snake of time in itself around “him”.

Thing…. And he knew himself truly bound … enmeshed in her wild close plea and spirit as he fled … to the greatest operative distance imaginable: the leash upon himself grew into such a mechanical fiend of proportion he dared to lean as never before (without actually falling) upon the abyss of invention and confront the technical blast and hollow within which she stood … mistress of the skull, “blind” socket.

They were now inextricably involved with the “dead” choirs of vision they had inflicted upon each other — tied together by one insensible crew of fate: one apparent vessel of flight through which they chose … struggled to escape from each other — he from the chain of lust she had ground into him until he grew aware how he still conceived it his sole harness and protection — she from the sovereign role and animal conversion with which he had invested her until she grew aware how she still conceived it her maternal shell … womb of fruition…. Thus it was that their very state of brutal relation began to usher in the fantastic irony of a common flesh.

For the implement (or substitute) they shared had become a secret transmission of energies (masked from and yet involved in the structure of each other) — energies they wished both to contain and set free within menaces which drew them to wrestle with each other in the heart of a fearful and apparent immunity from, and yet fearful and apparent attachment to, the instrument of their condition.

Mast of love, half-animal, half-human (saddle of earth, car of sky) — mnemonic cloud—“ground” of flight … compass of origins — convergence upon “concrete” travail — flesh — THING….

As if all one’s nature had been seized by a phenomenon of explosive self-containment, undivided area of tension but broken tyranny of response, contraction and exposure on one hand, relief and submission on the other, merciful unawareness and merciless awareness of a fleet ally, within which to sound and digest an essential stroke of duty and conception which bound one still to the fortunes and fortress of the past, in order to hold one and release one in the identical drill of the present from a most burdensome prison, perspective, monumental evasion of reality, fixture and administration of the gulf, insensible clasp….

Common flesh…. Instinctive bond like a great tightening … valley of constraint … singing in one’s ears…. Had the phenomenal mechanism of one’s world, fathom, hearing aid, sounding line, truly struck the shell of recollection, echo and choir of elements, macrocosm one had never dreamt existed in the wave-length of silence?

The “waiting” room — part-present, part-past, part-future, it seemed — was falling through the dust of space, axe of memory, chopping sea, flying chip or vessel whose strain, leash, trough and course had become participle of its own crust and loaf — headless plunge … ocean … devouring perspective, joint, ground (mill of the gods), “vanished” species, felled season.

MOUTH OF THE VOID…. Shroud of “subjective” fate torn by the irony and compulsion of freedom: two edged sword, teeth, which in exercising (while appearing to uphold every reinforcement and mistress of nature such as … mute skull … beloved flesh) sang for the first pointed incredible time, it seemed, out of its round and garment which had long appeared to demolish every miraculous bone and horn of protest in sheer animal voluptuousness: sang for the first incredible pointed time, it seemed; and one was drawn by the skinof the vortex into the other’srentand beauty of consciousness….

Book 2. The Vortex

ONE. Image of Conquest

Susan Forrestal stroked the curious horns of the antelope upon the wall of the room. They seemed to twist and wind their way through the palms of her hand as if they were intent on plucking her from their living grave and vortex. The sensation drew her into his arms again: the man she had loved who had abandoned and betrayed her a long time ago. Was it ten years or as many centuries ago? It was his gift which stood upon the wall like blades of water.

The vessel of the room was almost pitch black save for the spiralling light of the horns — the glowing constellations of flesh which rose and exploded within the dark premises of memory restraining them. The axes of the horns drew her both sharply and gently down into the vicinity of the animal’s cured skin — holes for eyes — until she trembled with the new senses of an alien figure of conquest. It did not seem to matter whether it was she who lived to cast aft echoing net about him, or he—horn and cane she grasped — who lived to tap each sound along the way and propel her into the ghostly music of the stars.

And in fact — as she stroked the “blind” and “deaf” beast that had been flayed and pinned to the wall, it gave her, in tune with everything else, the thrill all over again of pursuer and pursued, the thrill of execution: the sensation of catching him again and again and compensating the defeat of herself within the pregnant fold and field he still inflicted upon her; the magical womb of the hunt was now hers to confer upon him as she wished (shroud or skin or sail) to silence the clamour of bruised instinct he had once aroused within her like an orchestra of fury, and which she now calculated she had repaid by rendering him senseless as stone, mute and void.

She felt an enormous desire to puncture him again and again as “he” had once punctured her: holes for eyes within waiting room, half-sanctuary, half-confessional — masked “seeing” eyes against a torn “speaking” mouth, and she drew the nail of one finger across her lips (as if embarrassed at the thought of being converted into his cloth and vision — half-curse, half-blessing or prayer) like the breath of a sceptical axe upon his neck where he stood pinned to the wall.

In truth — had she not long since lost all desire but to preserve an eternity of jealous distance from him? And thus — as if in fear of a “broken” contest (wherein he had invoked the voice of fiends within her breast) — she fell on her knees and addressed him as god of fair weather and foul. No wonder she wanted to participate his own defenceless crew and grow deaf, prostrate beneath masthead, figure-head, to whom she yielded pride of place in the end, token of godhead she insisted all must pay for flying from and still overshadowing her.

This hieroglyph of storm — seizure of reality — was the literal vessel she half-worshipped, which became part and parcel of the medium of history upon the deck of which she froze to dwell — despite all movement — like the sovereign mistress of both the apparent flux of love and the apparent flux of fate, maelstrom and passion.

Perhaps it was only natural that void and vortex should sound and exist within creatures whose original lust and desire inevitably drained them within a confluence of times, of the music and fever of the chase, until all that remained was but an imprisoned echo in a shell — the hollow conversion of each other’s compulsion and reflection into each other’s god, or into each other’s muse of god….

Upon the floor of the waiting room of fetishes where Susan knelt — half-pinned herself, it seemed to her more clearly than ever now in the “eyes” of another, stone-deaf lover, as he had been pinned by her against a wall of flight — the low hum of traffic from the street of memory without (like an ocean of enterprise) died and rose again with the curl of each wave to enclose her and spin her round, up, down, until the fantastic spiral of horns ceased and seemed not to grip her at all but to return to becoming part and parcel of “his” abandonment of her all over again in the end…. And yet it left her with the taste of the vortex in her blood….

There was a sudden movement in the room. Susan rose to her feet. She began to drift after a while in search of whatever it was — propelled by a springing concert of need towards the magnet of the void, the open door of the room she vaguely recalled she had forgotten to close. A draught struck her and she moved against this, pinpointed and encircled by a spirit of control, apotheosis and birth of a fiction — electrified, as a consequence, into accepting the shock of diminished perspective, ancient of days as well as infancy of nights, infidelity of monument ceaselessly curdling and branching into something less than one feared or loved.

She drew close to the open door — located and gripped the knob — pulled fast. But even as she did so, a nerveless sensation, running water, swept along her arm as if the door had not been moved by her at all but had slammed shut of its own crooked spring and accord and her presence was but a curious agent of eternity within malformation, disfiguration, living and abandoned fluid tissue. She knew she stood on the threshold of resigning herself, even before she properly knew it, to the imbalance of season and eternity, a third seeing vessel and party — the displacement of which — lying between “him” on one hand, and “herself” on the other — she could not fathom save that here sailed the riddle and clasp of the chase seen through “pilot” eyes (holes for eyes) of a fiction which exercised upon her an uncanny demolition of premises, power of concentration and penetration, “drain” of attention, scrutiny beyond every apparent cloak to the essential fabric of freedom which “they”—in spite of a marriage of weakness, half-hunter, half-hunted, half-nothing, half-something, half-besieger, half-besieged — had become.

TWO. Watchman. Watchman

The church clock, a stone’s throw away, struck three: Susan turned, made her way back into the room towards a table with a book upon it. Ancient “log-book”. It seemed to her as she touched it that the fluid tie she had sensed within the room a moment ago, subsided into a pool at her feet, part and parcel of an aridity of vision, the unemotional stricken watch of place. Bond of freedom through which she felt herself related to a desert of expectation.

Susan knew her husband would return in an hour or two. Yet though she realized he was within arm’s reach (or stone’s throw) as it were — an admirable and patient companion at all times — his flesh and blood seemed to fade into an unpretentious obscurity and to become more remote than the stranded pages of the book in her hand which, as she turned them over, floated across their sea of memory until they were hooked upon the dry horns of the vessel that had been shored against them.

And in fact sometimes it appeared to her that time had grown to design the log-book to achieve this very end in time — to assume the symbolic proportions of a raft which she was grateful to the past and the present for establishing in the phenomenal tide of a medium of cleavage existing in its own true abandoned structure and right.

Pregnant. She wrote the word with a vacant finger upon a page of the book and watched it sail out of sight upon crippled mast or mask. Features unknown. Angel (or beast?) in disguise. Rod of the depths.

Pregnant. Rather a late pregnancy for a woman of her age, early forties. She tried to focus her thoughts upon “him” but her finger moved and stuck upon the very daemon of abstraction. Blank. Black. Yes, she had to confess she did not really know what the father of her unborn child looked like. Anyone or anything in disguise. She was already blind when she met him. Blind as the fertile day or first night she slept beside him.

Amazing how much he actually knew about her. It disconcerted her because he seemed in the end to deprive her of an obsessional fruit of knowledge she cherished … hallucinated immortal flesh-and-blood…. Was it all a dream compounded of instinctive dry-rot, a fiction compounded of nothingness, to imply a reality of freedom—somethingness?

How could she begin to accept and relinquish at the same time a conception of appearances she had come to believe she had once and truly adopted and loved, long, long ago, and whose stature of repudiation (or flight from her) she found equally diminishing in preconceived matter or content as nourishing in unconditional unity — being and spirit?

And indeed which cubit was less real (or more concrete) than the other? Might not her proud flesh-and-blood, her illusion of strength, prove so adamant it became equally worthless?

It was the first baffling sentence “he” had written in the log-book — baffling because as she traced it from memory she found herself both banished and reclaimed within an intimate structure of relationship….

She began to trace the narrative title upon a further page of the log-book — THIEF. THIEF, but found herself now, unwittingly perhaps, half-erasing, half-converting this — with every stroke of a vacant finger — into the shadow of another continuous vigil WATCHMAN. WATCHMAN…. The borderline features which she summoned, part-veiled, part-exposed, were half-subject, half-object of each other — displaced by each other within “living” room, “waiting” room, equally substantial as frail, animate as inanimate within a yielding train of capacity that erected “objective” goals, “subjective” barriers, whose “inner” openness or “outer” obduracy of conviction was but one involuntary spectre.

Thief. Thief. WATCHMAN. WATCHMAN. The telephone in the room began to ring. Her husband was calling to say he would be half an hour late. Was there anything she would like him to get her?

Nothing. Her voice and reply seemed perfectly normal and self-possessed in her own ears. But in his, at the other end, came a sharp note, rebuke, accusation…. What was she accusing him of …? It was not the first time he felt this. Was he robbing her, depriving her (within the very care and attention he lavished upon her) of something she desperately needed? Was it a bond of friction he cultivated and she resented?

Was he over-exacting, over-scrupulous, too solicitous — unchanging, identical in compulsion and manner? Was he pushing her to the brink of exhaustion?

The helplessness of his situation began to assume the sharpest and yet most arid proportions. Was there nothing, after all, he could do for her? Susan hesitated with a curious sensation of crumbling within his ultimatum and ring of light.

She knew she was beginning to slip, in spite of his every precaution, into a depth of self-knowledge, a depth of isolation from which he guarded her. But who was he, after all, to guard her in one thing and confess himself ignorant and fearful of relative desolation in another? How did “he” see her in the ultimate corruption of flesh at the ghostly end of the line upon which she seemed to pull both close at hand and yet utterly removed? Could he husband within himself a distant and faint spiritual body of resources while bending himself upon it with all the material strength at his command, to exorcise the very fiend of estrangement and love?

Tension of the “dead” in the living, and of the “living” in the dead, as a consequence of which there glided a shadow of complexity (Susan knew), an intangible cloud or fiction, rain and drought. The line suddenly went “dead” in her hands. Merely the sputter of space now. The gibberish of the stars. The naïveté of eternity. “His” true gift perhaps in the end. Nothing. Instantaneous unpredictable relief within every “given” body of terror in flight from unnatural fears and responsibilities…. Thief. Thief. WATCHMAN. WATCHMAN.

She replaced the receiver upon the hook. Abruptly (like someone anticipating another ring), for even as the replacement provided her with the old insensible order and crew, “deaf” monument, attention, she was aware once again how it stripped her of something she had refused but entirely wanted to grasp … accept … as hers by truth whose shadow still moved over or against her.

*

The sea of traffic in the street suddenly appeared to rise and she felt a faint dry wave or shudder strike the wreck of the room: a blow not unlike the sound of her own fist dislodging itself from its shadow pressing into the eye of each finger-tip. Rolling “log”-book. Stranded telephone within the dust of memory. Toppling skull, ornamental ear and mouthpiece. Half-trailing, half-knotted signal and line. Watchman. THIEF.

Nothing moved. It was the strangest discordant flight of consequences she experienced — agitated body (vacant structure), nerve-end, string (bodiless splinter), tautness of sail stiff as a comb upon whose giant brow nothing moved as if “nothing” were “something”. So obscure this shift or severance was it seemed little more than the prick of an eye-tooth, the pressure of a finger-nail upon the palm of one hand. Nothing still moved—a faint shadow perhaps against the banality and monument of solipsis: phantom erection and ejection of parts issuing from the solid tyranny of proportion to swing into new clockwise mouth and head, anti-clockwise defiant trunk and limb.

“He” addressed her from within his new spiral — oracle and orbit, buoyant vessel, hieroglyph of space — declaring art is the phenomenon of freedom. “His” voice and their “log” book rang and struck her ears like a song. The “deaf” within her stirred and listened. The “dumb” she cherished began to speak. Susan started, grasped crew and ally she had thought — in a moment of acute self-knowledge and deprivation — to smash upon the floor. The dry-rot features of the past broke into fertile drum or ear, living mouth or tongue—What does one mean by phenomenon? they cried.

“They” had hardly uttered the words through “her”, when “he” responded by summoning “them” to make an inventory of the broken pieces, skin as well as wood, flung amidst the shattered telephone wires distended upon the floor. He had gone to great pains and expense, she recalled, to assemble these — and it seemed now, in the end, a sovereign principle that they should appear to endure and incorporate her features with each “dead” figure of the past which swung into new account and life.

“What do I mean by phenomenon? The hole in the monument, that’s what I mean.” He paused. She waited, tense. He could be so shattering, so severe. “There’s an ungraspable scale to nature and appearance. Remember that when you come to tackle the mess we’ve made of our economic affairs. In fact it was always beyond our control, even when the whole collection we’d scraped together seemed most obedient in relays of supply and demand.”

She was stung by the memory of crises they had suffered, some of which he had precipitated by temperamental recklessness. “But I don’t see,” she cried. “I don’t understand why you profess to care at one moment — and still say in the same breath it doesn’t matter at all. Are you saying that there are hidden forces …?” She was lost. She listened for the lightning rustle of vessel and “log”-book. But his or their reply was harsh as stone, “no. I never said that.”

“What then?” she pleaded.

“Appearances cannot be grasped in their entirety. That’s all I said. Not a word about hidden forces. Let me put it this way — every commission of fact involves an omission of intensity.” He paused. She waited. “Let me put it in still another way—execute something, quite naturally or unnaturally, as one imagines, isolate something in order to examine it properly, as one thinks, and one arrests — or appears to arrest — a web of processes. There’s always this “negative” race with or against something in which one is involved from beginning to end and all the way back again. And one can never keep dead in step. A little bit ahead, who knows (even this clairvoyant leap one may appear to accomplish), or a little bit behind. But never dead in step. Every apparent execution of the swift runner of life involves a loss in true pace and intensity or flight, even if it seems but a shade this way or that. And it is this fluid distinction which turns ultimately into the annihilation of forced premises. Herein lies an explosive and incalculable web upon which and out of which emerges the “equal” stride and fiction of reality.”

He stopped as if he had indeed turned upon her — in her pursuit of him — caught her and felled her to the ground in order to demonstrate to her, beyond a shadow of doubt, the truth of illusion — a marriage to the nemesis of freedom. She in turn sought to grind him into her — the racing pinnacle or beginning of things he had operated upon until all grew fanatical and still and strange. Watchman. THIEF, Sliced in half … antagonistic mating.

THREE. Fruit of the Lips

The “gap” which remained between them (as between doctor and patient, husband and wife, lover and mistress) made her cry on awaking upon the knife-edge of illusion, anaesthesia, solid bliss. She was blind. Yet she could see “his” lips move to address the apple of his eye. Eyeball of curious wood painted green stars and red. She remembered how he had fiercely cut and chiselled … their Universe…. Globe…. She flung it at him now across the room. Violent storm. He was on the point of leaving her. Was it ten years or twenty ago? Sunset. Blood. Green and red.

“Why don’t you leave me and go?” she cried. “You’ve done your worst. Now you stand there like a dolt … idiot. Dress it up as you like: the truth is — you revolve this way and that … vacillate. Always on the move. Why can’t you make up your mind whether you want to stay or go? I know what I want: security, marriage, a home. Not just roaming like your pupil to the ends of the earth. No use, I tell you. Can’t live like that any more. Can’t you see what you’re doing to me? For the last time: make up your mind….”

Susan was overwhelmed by her own outcry. It had been a brutal year for her. Still she was mad to speak like that. And in fact it sounded incredibly strange in her own ears after all this time (moments or years?) as if it had never occurred save as a dream centuries old. The last straw…. And when she realized he had indeed taken her at her word and gone, she felt she had died in truth within “his” operating theatre — blown to bits, sky-high. The end of the world. The shattering of the globe they once possessed. Why had she — without thinking — flung it at him? All because of one fantastic theory of freedom which he spouted at her until it triggered off an accumulative burden … resentment … pride. Ironic feud. One always read too much into everything at a particular moment. For what remained after each explosion of habit or circumstance was never an identical character within the present and past.

Was it ten years or twenty ago one relationship had died and another begun? In our end is our beginning. Phenomenon of nature. She flung the last burning straw at him out of the declining sun — bonfire of memory. It illuminated shred and circumstance — his departure all over again. He appeared once more to seize the glistening dying fury of recollection within her like a ball in space (though how could she swear it was truly so?): in that instant of recall her eyes splintered. Spiritual horizon. Shower of sparks. OPERATION SUCCESSFUL. Theatre of darkness. Black. His face grew BLACK but not with clinical rage (as she had dreamt) but with irony and submission … irony of fate … submission…. One must not read too much into the night of things. She rounded upon him like all the midnight paradoxical furies of old: there was nothing she wanted to save to clasp him gently to her breast. Let him stay in spite of the bitterness and freedom of option she thrust at him. The truth was she wanted him to stay; not go. She wanted to bind him to her in spite of anything spoken to the contrary. How could he take her literally at her word? How could he dare to involve her (and dissolve all her craft of subtle persuasion) in one action of destiny — ultimatum of choice, motive sphere, dialectic of the vortex?

She cried to him of an essential treaty of sensibility they shared he could never break however far he professed he was at liberty to go. And yet in abandoning her was he not acting to fulfil the range and depth of both precipitate choice and agreement? Was he not freeing her — as well as himself — from the burden of hidden motive (one thing openly said, another secretly meant), with each step he took which made her see the necessary life of the soul within the material cult of dismissive opinion? She was blind, but she saw this collective treaty of feud for the first unravelling time of stars upon an eyeball of wood: sensitive borderline of a fetish they shared in which every dumb particle of conviction, splintered statement and motive, combined into deed and sphere. She had actually cried to him — stay or go. And he chose to go. But she secretly intended him to stay. No wonder she saw him still in the light of one she had not truly relinquished, quicksilver of obsession, barometer residing within her. Upon which she rode — as upon his pointer or scale — since she knew, or felt she knew, that he — in spite of his open dismissal of her — secretly desired her to leave all and follow him. Broken and cemented journey around the globe. Northern Lights. Shield of the sun. Holes for eyes. Through which they broke into Orinoco. Their first journey together long ago.

Now—after twenty years — was it still too late to recover an essential trace of their last — as if she had indeed overtaken him in the end — hypothesis and realm, river of gold? Fantasy of Eldorado?

He beckoned to her — frozen sea — wave and boulder. The strands of her life spun toward him — one form or another, conception or deformity of conception. Inventory of concrete and mystical instruments. Pursuer and pursued. Elusive pregnant model. Half-human, half-brute. Half-skin, half-wood. Half-song, half-silence. ENDLESS CREW OF FATE.

It was as if he had partly escaped her within ears that were deaf to her plea, and she was on the point of regaining him within eyes that were blind to her peril — sleep of the sun.

FOUR. Blast

The sun appeared in the sky overhead. Then writhed, flashed, vanished across the minute clearing he possessed in the astronomical, glittering and cruel wealth of the jungle.

It may never have stood above him after all and the very clearing around and beneath him turned unreal as though its very isolation made it enormous and the immensity of space and bush surrounding it shrank into a uniform indistinct province.

He was waiting for his Amerindian guides to return and she (Susan) was turning into one of these. Skin of metamorphosis. She often felt his eyes upon her back but she knew herself masked by an ornamental stillness and indifference, catlike, slumbrous, smooth as stone….

He looked up suddenly and there she was — naked (his eyes knew) beneath the cloth she wore, bereaved and entrenched, alone.

She had come to sleep with him — both abstractly and intimately. To make herself known. Casual and reflective, yet deadly shadow upon his heart and lips. He could hardly believe his ears and eyes which may well and truly have been blotted out at this moment; and he knew he needed, as a consequence, to be on his guard as never before against the unreality and conquest of space.

The camp he possessed in the tiny clearing stood very close to a nameless creek which he had followed once for miles until the hills closed in all around and the water descended into a hole in the ground, to emerge a mile or two away upon the face of a cliff. The great casual boulders at the mouth of the cavern and within the subterranean gallery of the creek may, for all he knew, have been flung into position by some ancient explosion of the sun — they seemed to him so utterly remote from the very earth on which they stood.

He, too, and she, at this moment, as they faced each other, might have been equally alien sculptures of affection. He was suddenly filled with an obscure motive but fearful determination which drew him closer still to her.

He recalled how secretively she used to move within her small body of Indian companions and how his impulses of recognition — as if she had belonged to him within another frame and place and circumstance — faded time after time into nothingness with each step he made. He excused himself now for every inroad of imagination he visualized upon her, with the reflection that it was all in the involuntary nature of fantasy. She was woman and he was man, situated in bewildering circumstances of unpredictable light or shade bordering upon the density of the remainder of the world. Fantasy indeed. How could he dream of such a thing. And in the presence of her husband, then still at her side. She had not yet suffered bereavement. Four guides in all: herself, her husband, another man, his wife.

It had been his expressed intention at the outset to employ only two — both men — but the women arrived before long. He greeted them with anger and consternation but secretly was glad they had come. It was good for the morale of the men to have their women with them. And in fact he was quick to point out that they possessed no alternative now but to remain with the party and go on. Far into the interior droghing their rations on their back which they supplemented with fish and game.

ENTRY FOUND IN HIS DIARY. Encamped by nameless creek. Propose to stop for a while. Curious Amerindian woman — SUSAN?

FURTHER ENTRY illustrated by long jagged line (written in strange hand though this may have been due to violent emotional stress).

AUTHOR’S NOTE: The above entries with others pertaining to come from “his” diary were pasted into the log-book as if to confirm a shadow of participation and identity involving all the “characters” of the log-book — a shattered witness of events running like a species of remarkable fiction.

*

LIKE A FLASH THE BUSH MASTER ROSE AND STRUCK. Out of the blue. Stood high on its tail, writhed, spat. And it was Amerindian Susan’s husband upon whom sprang the mark of the venomous fangs, holes in his skin….

HORROR. Stupefaction. Intimate course of the poison in his veins. The tooth of the cayman alligator was placed on the wound. Nothing prevailed — neither civilization’s first aid chest nor mesmeric tooth of the wild, remnant of the skull…. THE MAN DIED.

It had happened at very close quarters — as close as she (Susan) now stood to him whom, she believed, in her primitive reckoning — since he happened to be their employer, living employer of consciousness — to be obscurely responsible for the fate of each member of his party (and therefore the death of her husband). Dream and capacity. WAITING ROOM.

All at once “he” could hardly believe his ears and eyes as if these had truly returned to him out of the cavern of death — to guard her equally in himself. As if he — and not his Amerindian servant and guide — had suffered the fangs of the snake. He recalled now the lightning stroke of the bushmaster which seemed to marry the sun as it earlier stood poised and still racing, fiery luminous ball, glowing feast of eyes upon the crumb of place. A great burning tooth was administered to the holes in “his” skin — puncture of memory — and converted and swallowed by a pinprick of blood. Poison as well as antidote.

He saw her now in a light he had never seen, since he had not been thus healed and safeguarded before. Her hair, black and glinting, piled high like a coil of dreams where the head of the snaking sun had been fierce and wild. Her eyes, black as a pit. He recalled the flight of the stream where it fell like a beam of light from the torch of sun. Self-division of elements he began to witness on his voyage in pursuit of the nameless river of the world where it descended into the ground at his feet to where he visualized its emergence — crack of illumination — upon cliff or stone. Two indistinct points these were (when seen from the middle obscure distance of the cavern). The glare of the torch in his hand blew out as if a cloud had sealed entrance and exit and shattered every skylight and clearing. But the faint stunned eyes within the subterranean cave of Susan grew brighter still, stars of consciousness blown by the very fist of night.

He had been walking upon a skeleton framework on the bank of the stream but now descended into the water and made his way forward within the very body of the current. The hidden river was suddenly colder than he imagined it could be at the heart of the tropics. The seal of the sun was upheld and splintered again and again — idiosyncratic purity and flaw of the landscape like an explosion of memory, jungle of nights, inset of days. The black eyelid of nature flickered with each stroke of enlightenment, stamp of flame, ice….

*

It was a journey which he felt had begun in the very obscurity of ages, as if at one time fire had sealed the cavern — at another time ice. And these seals were the peculiar stamp of insulation from total disaster upon a living crew of fate who were deprived of the extremity of experiencing the very function of death they performed. Cloud or seal, blocking of ears, blinding of sight which rendered one and all immune and faithful guides or servants of each other through the unenviable passage of the underworld. Vessel of reality. Bond of translation.

Each relic “he” touched — antique skull, tooth, fluid object — was instinct with paradox; chafe of fury on one hand and insensible freedom of proportion or function on the other.

Each constellation of properties he visualized — sacrificial litter, dog or snake, ancient, newborn — was both “alive” and “dead” within the crucial operations of the nameless cavern, middle way, middle passage — astronomical man and slave, doctor and patient, lover and mistress, captain and instrument, artist and model. And the ghostly sun which now seemed to glare at him existed both within its own naked right, indescribable, pure, and in another sacred anthropomorphic skin, masthead and shroud of reality. Furnace of blindness as well as blackness of vision. Bound to the stars as well as indestructibly alien — free from total ordeal and attraction within an operative seal and design. Unendurable canvas of fire save for each insulation portrait. Multiple impress and circuit of compassion within the transit of the “living” and the “dead”.

The subterranean cave of Susan. It was as if he had spoken her name aloud and the echoes combined into a crumbling fixture, property of the imagination. There was no price he would not pay to grasp such an ultimate seal of freedom and conviction within the borderline capacities of nature.

The cavern shook once again and rumbled — not with the same echoes this time but with a new distant faint blast. Incredible … surprise … revelation. He knew (as surely as if he had been told) that the blast he now heard had actually occurred ages ago: and that, at long last, it was able to reach him in an echo long muffled and nurtured and preserved (like the sound of the sea in a shell) by its very sovereign stamp of irruption—persona of “deafness” to the original catastrophe and, in fact, “blindness” (until a moment ago) to the ancient shroud of the sun. Shroud of love. Ancient metamorphosis, endless creation, gods, species of fiction within whose mask of death one endured the essential phenomenon of crisis and translation.

Delayed blast. Short circuit. Reaction. Within the radius of which “he” felt himself begin to relive — with new awareness — his descent through the door of the middle passage (down the nameless river of the underworld) as one who had been smitten by the bushmaster of space until “he” and “it” fell through a common skin into a naked darkness they had never dreamt would heal and safeguard them.

There swam before him ghost and bride, armature of love, explosive anatomy he cherished at the end of ages of pursuit within the delayed recognitions of the present in the past, the past in the future….

Page 17.

* She drew him closer still within the skin of another incongruous skeleton they shared, flesh or wood, swimming in the glass of their shop window within and without. Antique display. Waiting room.*

Content

Wilson Harris
The Waiting Room

Author’s Note

Book 1. The Void

ONE. Image of Conviction

TWO. Thief. Thief

THREE. Apple of the Eye

FOUR. Silence Please

FIVE. The Operation

SIX. Thing

Book 2. The Vortex

ONE. Image of Conquest

TWO. Watchman. Watchman

THREE. Fruit of the Lips

FOUR. Blast