Saint Lucy was a beautiful young girl from Syracuse.
She is painted with two magnificent ox eyes on a tray.
She suffered martyrdom under the consul Pascasian, who had a silver mustache and howled like a mastiff.
As do all saints she posed and resolved delicious theorems, before those whose plate glass windows the apparatuses of Physics break.
In the public square she demonstrated, to the surprise of the populace, that a thousand men and fifty pairs of oxen are powerless to move the luminous dove of the Holy Spirit. Her body, her great body, turned to compressed lead. Our Lord, with His crown and scepter, was surely seated in her womb.
St. Lucy was a tall young woman with small breasts and opulent hips. Like all fierce women, she had overlarge, masculine eyes, with a dark and disagreeable light. She expired in a bed of flames.
The market was at its zenith, and the beach of the day was full of conch shells and ripe tomatoes. Before the miraculous cathedral façade I understood perfectly how Saint Raymond Nonnato, mounted on his cape, could cross the sea from the Balearic Islands to Barcelona, and how the ancient Chinese Sun grows furious and jumps, rooster-like, on the musical towers of dragon’s meat.
People were drinking beer in the bars and multiplying accounts in the offices, while the + and x signs of the Jewish bank sustained an obscure battle with the sign of the Cross, full of brine and extinguished candles. Pouring over the city from the cathedral’s fat bell was a rain of little copper chimes, which attached themselves to the stupefied streetcars, and to the horses’ nervous necks. I had forgotten my Baedeker and my field glasses, and I began to look at the city as one looks at the sea from the sand.