“Such a beautiful pail of fish, such a beautiful peck of apples, I cannot bring you now. It is too early and I am not footloose yet.”
“Such a beautiful pail of fish, such a beautiful peck of apples, I cannot bring you now. It is too early and I am not footloose yet.”
The words of the American poet rattle in my head and then I turn my eyes to the floor where my destroyed Balzac is lying. The soft brownleather back is uninjured and now again, in fancy, the name of the author is staring at me. The name is stamped on the back of the book in letters of gold.
From the floor of my room the name Balzac is grinning ironically up into my own American face.