THOSE VARIOUS SCALPELS
Thosevarious sounds consistently indistinct, like intermingledechoesstruck from thin glass successively at random—theinflection disguised: your hair, the tails of twofighting-cocks head to head in stone—like sculpturedscimitars re-peating the curve of your ears in reverse order: your eyes,flowers of iceandsnow sown by tearing winds on the cordage of disabledships: your raised handan ambiguous signature: your cheeks, those rosettesof blood on the stone floors of French châteaux, withregard to which guides are so affirmative:your other handabundle of lances all alike, partly hid by emeralds fromPersiaand the fractional magnificence of Florentinegoldwork—a collection of half a dozen little objectsmade finewith enamel in gray, yellow, and dragonfly blue: a lemon, apearand three bunches of grapes, tied with silver: your dress, amagnificent squarecathedral of uniformand at the same time, diverse appearance—a species ofvertical vineyard rustling in the stormof conventional opinion. Are they weapons or scalpels?Whettedtobrilliance by the hard majesty of that sophistication whichis su-perior to opportunity, these things are richinstruments with which to experiment but surgery isnot tentative: why dissect destiny with instrumentswhichare more highly specialized than the tissues of destinyitself?
Thosevarious sounds consistently indistinct, like intermingledechoesstruck from thin glass successively at random—theinflection disguised: your hair, the tails of twofighting-cocks head to head in stone—like sculpturedscimitars re-peating the curve of your ears in reverse order: your eyes,flowers of iceandsnow sown by tearing winds on the cordage of disabledships: your raised handan ambiguous signature: your cheeks, those rosettesof blood on the stone floors of French châteaux, withregard to which guides are so affirmative:your other handabundle of lances all alike, partly hid by emeralds fromPersiaand the fractional magnificence of Florentinegoldwork—a collection of half a dozen little objectsmade finewith enamel in gray, yellow, and dragonfly blue: a lemon, apearand three bunches of grapes, tied with silver: your dress, amagnificent squarecathedral of uniformand at the same time, diverse appearance—a species ofvertical vineyard rustling in the stormof conventional opinion. Are they weapons or scalpels?Whettedtobrilliance by the hard majesty of that sophistication whichis su-perior to opportunity, these things are richinstruments with which to experiment but surgery isnot tentative: why dissect destiny with instrumentswhichare more highly specialized than the tissues of destinyitself?
Thosevarious sounds consistently indistinct, like intermingledechoesstruck from thin glass successively at random—theinflection disguised: your hair, the tails of twofighting-cocks head to head in stone—like sculpturedscimitars re-peating the curve of your ears in reverse order: your eyes,flowers of ice
andsnow sown by tearing winds on the cordage of disabledships: your raised handan ambiguous signature: your cheeks, those rosettesof blood on the stone floors of French châteaux, withregard to which guides are so affirmative:your other hand
abundle of lances all alike, partly hid by emeralds fromPersiaand the fractional magnificence of Florentinegoldwork—a collection of half a dozen little objectsmade finewith enamel in gray, yellow, and dragonfly blue: a lemon, a
pearand three bunches of grapes, tied with silver: your dress, amagnificent squarecathedral of uniformand at the same time, diverse appearance—a species ofvertical vineyard rustling in the stormof conventional opinion. Are they weapons or scalpels?Whetted
tobrilliance by the hard majesty of that sophistication whichis su-perior to opportunity, these things are richinstruments with which to experiment but surgery isnot tentative: why dissect destiny with instrumentswhichare more highly specialized than the tissues of destinyitself?