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Along the shore the cloud waves break. The twin suns sink behind the lake. The shadows lengthen In Carcosa. Strange is the night where black stars rise. And strange moons circle through the skies. But stranger still is Lost Carcosa. Songs that Michael Kors store [www.michaelkorsoutletstoreonlinesale.us"] the Hyades shall sing. Where flap the tatters of the King. Must die unheard in Dim Carcosa. Song of my soul, my voice is dead. Die thou, unsung, as tears unshed Shall dry and die in Lost Carcosa.
Cassildaýýs Song in The King in Yellow. Act 1. Scene 2.
Being the Contents of an Unsigned Letter Sent to the Author
There are so many things which are impossible to explain! Why should certain chords in music make me think of the brown and golden tints of autumn foliage? Why should the Mass of Sainte Cýýcile send my thoughts wandering among caverns whose walls blaze with ragged masses of virgin silver? What was it in the roar and turmoil of Broadway at six oýýclock that flashed before my eyes the picture of a still Breton forest where sunlight filtered through spring foliage and Silvia bent, half curiously, half tenderly, over a small green lizard, murmuring: ýýTo think that this also is a little ward of God!ýý
When I first saw the watchman his back was toward me. I looked at him indifferently until he went into the church. I paid no more attention to him than I had to any other man who lounged through Washington Square that morning, and when I shut my window and turned back into my studio I had forgotten him. Late in the afternoon, the day being warm, I raised the window again and leaned out to get a sniff of air. A man was standing in the courtyard of the church, and I noticed him again with as little interest as I had that morning. I looked across the square to where the fountain was playing and then, with my mind filled with vague impressions of trees, asphalt drives, and the moving groups of nursemaids and holidaymakers, I started to walk back to my easel. As I turned, my listless glance included the man below in the churchyard. His face was toward me now, and with a perfectly involuntary movement I bent to see it. At the same moment he raised his head and looked at me. Instantly I thought of a coffin-worm. Whatever it was about the man that repelled me I did not know, but the impression of a plump white grave-worm was so intense and nauseating that I must have shown it in my expression, for he turned his puffy face away with a movement which made me think of a disturbed grub in a chestnut.
I went back to my easel and motioned the model to resume her pose. After working awhile I was satisfied that I was spoiling what I had done as rapidly as possible, and I took up a palette knife and scraped the color out again. The flesh tones were sallow and unhealthy, and I did not understand how I could have painted such sickly color into a study which before that had glowed with healthy tones.
I looked at Tessie. She had not changed, and the clear flush of health dyed her neck and cheeks as I frowned.
ýýIs it something Iýýve done?ýý she said.
ýýNo ýý Iýýve made a mess of this arm, and for the life of me I canýýt see how I came to paint such mud as that into the canvas,ýý I replied.
ýýDonýýt I pose well?ýý she insisted.
ýýOf course, perfectly.ýý
ýýThen itýýs not my fault?ýý
ýýNo. Itýýs my own.ýý
ýýIýým very sorry,ýý she said.
I told her she could rest while I applied rag and turpentine to the plague spot on my canvas, and she went off to smoke a cigarette and look over the illustrations in the Courier Fran?ais.
I did not know whether it was something in the turpentine or a defect in the canvas, but the more I scrubbed the more that gangrene seemed to spread. I worked like a
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