Farce, instead!
Does the tragic deer, the beautiful, the doomed, imbue his every poolside hour with dolorous contemplation? Must all the activities of the woodchuck be regarded as dismal? To write the stark terms of our essence on every breath and sentence of the moment is to be the own advocate of death, the white bones himself, and to overlook the splendor with such eyeless concentration that the poem becomes a joke on the poet.
I flirted with Yvonne—told her stories of Paris and Hollywood and Miami Beach—held her hand—all, in chivalrous camouflage.
Paul came at last.
I hardly needed to see the stoop—the broken reach to push open the doors that enclosed our cold air cube—to know that, between us, we had not lifted his oppression. For, when it is succubus that's lost, incubus perforce remains.
He looked disapprovingly at Yvonne. "Mrs. Prentiss, this is my nephew," I said. "Paul Wilson."
"Hello, Mrs. Prentiss." He turned from her. "I'll barge along, Phil. I thought you'd be alone."
"Oh, hell, sit."
"Really—it's not possible!" His ardent features were emphasized by pallor—and shooting about on his face, besides.