it was hard to believe in one’s self after that ... did Wildes’ parents or Shelly’s or Goya’s talk to them like that ... but it was depressing to think in that vein ... Alex stretched and yawned ... Max had died ... Margaret had died ... so had Sonia ... Cynthia ... Juan-Jose and Harry ... all people he had loved ... loved one by one and together ... and all had died ... he never loved a person long before they died ... in truth he was tragic ... that was a lovely appellation ... The Tragic Genius ... think ... to go thru life known as The Tragic Genius ... romantic ... but it was more or less true ... Alex turned over and blew another cloud of smoke ... was all life like that ... smoke ... blue smoke from an ivory holder ... he wished he were in New Bedford ... New Bedford was a nice place ... snug little houses set complacently behind protecting lawns ... half open windows showing prim interiors from behind waving cool curtains ... inviting ... like precise courtesans winking from behind lace fans ... and trees ... many trees ... casting lacey patterns of shade on the sun dipped sidewalks ... small stores ... naively proud of their pseudo grandeur ... banks ... called institutions for saving ... all naive ... that was it ... New Bedford was naive ... after the sophistication of New York it would fan one like a refreshing breeze ... and yet he had returned to New York ... and sophistication ... was he sophisticated ... no because he was seldom bored ... seldom bored by anything ... and weren’t the sophisticated continually suffering from ennui ... on the contrary ... he was amused ... amused by the artificiality of naivety and sophistication alike ... but may be that in itself was the essence of sophistication or ... was it cynicism ... or were the two identical ... he blew a cloud of smoke ... it was growing dark now ... and the smoke no longer had a ladder to climb ... but soon the moon would rise and then he would clothe the silver moon in blue smoke garments ... truly smoke was like imagination....
Alex sat up ... pulled on his shoes and went out ... it was a beautiful night ... and so large ... the dusky blue hung like a curtain in an immense arched doorway ... fastened with silver tacks ... to wander in the night was wonderful ... myriads of inquisitive lights ... curiously prying into the dark ... and fading unsatisfied ... he passed a woman ... she was not beautiful ... and he was sad because she did not weep that she would never be beautiful ... was it Wilde who had said ... a cigarette is the most perfect pleasure because it leaves one unsatisfied ... the breeze gave to him a perfume stolen from some wandering lady of the evening ... it pleased him ... why was it that men wouldn’t use perfumes ... they should ... each and every one of them liked perfumes ... the man who denied that was a liar ... or a coward ... but if ever he were to voice that thought ... express it ... he would be misunderstood ... a fine feeling that ... to be misunderstood ... it made him feel tragic and great ... but may be it would be nicer to be understood ... but no ... no great artist is ... then again neither were fools ... they were strangely akin these two ... Alex thought of a sketch he would make ... a personality sketch of Fania ... straight classic features tinted proud purple ... sensuous fine lips ... gilded for truth ... eyes ... half opened and lids colored mysterious green ... hair black and straight ... drawn sternly mocking back from the false puritanical forehead ... maybe he would made Edith too ... skin a blue ... infinite like night ... and eyes ... slant and grey ... very complacent like a cat’s ... Mona Lisa lips ... red and seductive as ... as pomegranate juice ... in truth it was fine to be young and hungry and an artist ... to blow blue smoke from an ivory holder....
here was the cafeteria ... it was almost as tho it had journeyed to meet him ... the night was so blue ... how does blue feel ... or red or gold or any other color ... if colors could be heard he could paint most wondrous tunes ... symphonious ... think ... the dulcet clear tone of a blue like night ... of a red like pomegranate juice ... like Edith’s lips ... of the fairy tones to be heard in a sunset ... like rubies shaken in a crystal cup ... of the symphony of Fania ... and silver ... and gold ... he had heard the sound of gold ... but they weren’t the sounds he wanted to catch ... no ... they must be liquid ... not so staccato but flowing variations of the same caliber ... there was no one in the cafe as yet ... he sat and waited ... that was a clever idea he had had about color music ... but after all he was a monstrous clever fellow ... Jurgen had said that ... funny how characters in books said the things one wanted to say ... he would like to know Jurgen ... how does one go about getting an introduction to a fiction character ... go up to the brown cover of the book and knock gently ... and say hello ... then timidly ... is Duke Jurgen there ... or ... no because if entered the book in the beginning Jurgen would only be a pawn broker ... and one didn’t enter a book in the center ... but what foolishness ... Alex lit a cigarette ... but Cabell was a master to have written Jurgen ... and an artist ... and a poet ... Alex blew a cloud of smoke ... a few lines of one of Langston’s poems came to describe Jurgen....
Somewhat like Ariel
Somewhat like Puck
Somewhat like a gutter boy
Who loves to play in muck.
Somewhat like Bacchus
Somewhat like Pan
And a way with women