Exile

This entry is part 21 of 38 in the series Une Semaine de Bonté

 

Page 21 of Max Ernst’s Une semaine de bonté

Whatever got slipped in my drink, it isn’t working. My pen has come to life just to tell me this, all wild-eyed and red. Its feather still won’t fly. I am a prisoner of time, as are we all, and a citizen of France, as every deposed despot must eventually become. My interpreter balks at the mystery undressing itself in my head: so much untying and unlacing! It’s enervating. No wonder he prefers straight talk. As if the dancers he follows so avidly aren’t also speaking with every twist and sway. They are saying hell yes to some heaven that barely exists, shiny as a soap bubble in the sun. I have never seen more clearly than in artificial light.

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