[vi.]
He pours a glass. I laugh marginally and conclude with an evasive anecdote.
Finding Dr Harvest in the room, instead of the apothecary, I worry that the
thin partitions will not separate us from him. We are suffering from the same dissatisfaction — consisting of the changing directions of love. We have already
concluded,
"That love, in its cruelty, has been traveling through space, since before the invention of time."
Our affliction seems to arise from an affliction of the nervous system, or from the states that our
discussions have a tendency to produce. It is the way my erotic questions are taken, lacking
subtlety. Perhaps it is because I cannot account for the feelings I have since reading CHAPTER
X.
"Love to be considered credible, would need to be authenticated by the LOVE OF PLANTS.1"
Incontestable evidence {as their leaves droop and become folded together}. A laughable instance
of self prophesy. A metaphor to be used by us as an excuse. I want what I want to want. Dr.
Harvest relocated to India2. She lived with him for many years afterwards.
{Absence is generally incurable}.
[vii.]
It is right that we should have something which ought to be acknowledged.
Incisions are made in various parts of the body. These are filled with
manuscripts and then carefully sewn up. The skin afterwards —
an envelop in a coffin, a letter containing the words of the Prophet.
It is familiar to hear of such practices, [Undertakers are too
common]. When they are sought, they will acknowledge all
infirmities of body and mind. One Kurdish undertaker 3, acquired great
celebrity from his success in embalming
children — upon their flanks he would write,
"Heaven is too small. "
