On one of the doors leading out of the cathedral the skeleton of an ancient fish had been hung; on another, the skeleton of a seraph, gently rocked by the oval breeze of the opticians’ shops, which wafted in with its fresh smell of apples and coastline.
It was lunch time, and I asked for directions to my inn.
You are quite far away from it. Do not forget that the cathedral is near the train station, and that inn is located to the South, below the river.
I have plenty of time.
The train station was nearby.
A broad square, representative of the lame emotion the waning moon drags along, opened out in the background, as hard as three o’clock in the morning.
Little by little the plate glass windows of the opticians’ shops began to hide themselves in their little coffins of leather and nickel, in the silence which uncovers the subtle relationship between fish, star, and eyeglasses.
Whoever has seen his eyeglasses alone beneath the moonlight, or has abandoned the impertinent things on the beach, has understood, as I have, this delicate harmony (fish, star, eyeglasses) which bumps up against an immense white tablecloth recently wet with champagne.
I managed to compose perfectly as many as eight still lives from the eyes of St. Lucy.
Eyes of St. Lucy above the clouds, in the first place, with the impression that the birds have just flown away.
Eyes of St. Lucy on the sea, in the sphere of the watch, at the side of the yoke, on the great, recently felled trunk.
They can be related to the desert, to great intact surfaces, to a marble foot, to a thermometer, to an ox.
They cannot be joined with the mountains, nor with the spindle, nor with the frog, nor with cotton-like substances. Eyes of St. Lucy.
Far from every heartbeat and far from every sorrow. Permanent. Inactive. Without oscillation. Seeing the flight of all things wrapped in their difficult, eternal temperature. Deserving of the tray which gives them liberty and raised, like the breasts of Venus, before the ironic monocle of the Enemy.
Axé.