this
role, and now with Paul she felt she was being transformed into a stature and
substance nearer to her true state.
With Paul she was passing from an insincere
pretense at maturity into a more vulnerable world, escaping from the more
difficult role of tormented woman to a smaller room of warmth.
For one moment, sitting there with Paul,
listening to the Symphony in D Minor of Cesar Franck, through his eyes she was
allowed behind the mirror into a smaller silk-lined house of faith.
In art, in history, man fights his fears, he
wants to live forever, he is afraid of death, he wants to work with other men,
he wants to live forever. He is like a child afraid of death. The child is afraid
of death, of darkness, of solitude. Such simple fears behind all the elaborate
constructions. Such simple fears as hunger for light, warmth, love. Such simple
fears behind the elaborate constructions of art. Examine them all gently and
quietly through the eyes of a boy. There is always a human being lonely, a
human being afraid, a human being lost, a human being confused. Concealing and
disguising his dependence, his needs, ashamed to say: I am a simple human being
in too vast and too complex a world. Because of all we have discovered about a
leaf…it is still a leaf. Can we relate to a leaf, on a tree, in a park, a
simple leaf: green, glistening, sun-bathed or wet, or turning white because the
storm is coming. Like the savage, let us look at the leaf wet or shining with
sun, or white with fear of the storm, or silvery in the fog, or listless in too
great heat, or falling in the autumn, drying, reborn each year anew. Learn from
the leaf: simplicity. In spite of all we know about the leaf: its nerve structure
phyllome cellular papilla parenchyma stomata venation. Keep a human
relation—leaf, man, woman, child. In tenderness. No matter how immense the
world, how elaborate, how contradictory, there is always man, woman, child, and
the leaf. Humanity makes everything warm and simple. Humanity. Let the waters
of humanity flow through the abstract city, through abstract art, weeping like
riets, cracking rocky mountains, melting icebergs. The frozen worlds in empty
cages of mobiles where hearts lie exposed like wires in an electric bulb. Let
them burst at the tender touch of a leaf.
The next morning Djuna was having breakfast in
bed when Lawrence appeared.
“I’m broke and I’d like to have breakfast with
you.”
He had begun to eat his toast when the maid
came and said: “There’s a gentleman at the door who won’t give his name.”
“Find out what he wants. I don’t want to dress
yet.”
But the visitor had followed the servant to the
door and stood now in the bedroom.
Before anyone could utter a protest he said in
the most classically villainous tone: “Ha, ha, having breakfast, eh?”
“Who are you? What right have you to come in
here,” said Djuna.
“I have every right: I’m a detective.”
“A detective!”
Lawrence’s eyes began to sparkle with
amusement.
The detective said to him; “And what are you
doing here, young man?”
“I’m having breakfast.” He said this in the
most cheerful and natural manner, continuing to drink his coffee and buttering
a piece of toast which he offered Djuna.
“Wonderful!” said the detective. “So I’ve
caught you. Having breakfast, eh? While your parents are breaking their hearts
over your disappearance. Having breakfast, eh? When you’re not eighteen yet and
they can force you to return home and never let you out again.” And turning to
Djuna he added: “And what may your interest in this young man be?”
Then Djuna and Lawrence broke into
irrepressible laughter, “I’m not the only one,” said Lawrence.
At this the detective looked like a man who had
not expected his task to be so easy, almost grateful for the collaboration.
“So you’re not the only one!”
Djuna stopped laughing. “He means anyone who is
broke can have breakfast here.”
“Will you have
role, and now with Paul she felt she was being transformed into a stature and
substance nearer to her true state.
With Paul she was passing from an insincere
pretense at maturity into a more vulnerable world, escaping from the more
difficult role of tormented woman to a smaller room of warmth.
For one moment, sitting there with Paul,
listening to the Symphony in D Minor of Cesar Franck, through his eyes she was
allowed behind the mirror into a smaller silk-lined house of faith.
In art, in history, man fights his fears, he
wants to live forever, he is afraid of death, he wants to work with other men,
he wants to live forever. He is like a child afraid of death. The child is afraid
of death, of darkness, of solitude. Such simple fears behind all the elaborate
constructions. Such simple fears as hunger for light, warmth, love. Such simple
fears behind the elaborate constructions of art. Examine them all gently and
quietly through the eyes of a boy. There is always a human being lonely, a
human being afraid, a human being lost, a human being confused. Concealing and
disguising his dependence, his needs, ashamed to say: I am a simple human being
in too vast and too complex a world. Because of all we have discovered about a
leaf…it is still a leaf. Can we relate to a leaf, on a tree, in a park, a
simple leaf: green, glistening, sun-bathed or wet, or turning white because the
storm is coming. Like the savage, let us look at the leaf wet or shining with
sun, or white with fear of the storm, or silvery in the fog, or listless in too
great heat, or falling in the autumn, drying, reborn each year anew. Learn from
the leaf: simplicity. In spite of all we know about the leaf: its nerve structure
phyllome cellular papilla parenchyma stomata venation. Keep a human
relation—leaf, man, woman, child. In tenderness. No matter how immense the
world, how elaborate, how contradictory, there is always man, woman, child, and
the leaf. Humanity makes everything warm and simple. Humanity. Let the waters
of humanity flow through the abstract city, through abstract art, weeping like
riets, cracking rocky mountains, melting icebergs. The frozen worlds in empty
cages of mobiles where hearts lie exposed like wires in an electric bulb. Let
them burst at the tender touch of a leaf.
The next morning Djuna was having breakfast in
bed when Lawrence appeared.
“I’m broke and I’d like to have breakfast with
you.”
He had begun to eat his toast when the maid
came and said: “There’s a gentleman at the door who won’t give his name.”
“Find out what he wants. I don’t want to dress
yet.”
But the visitor had followed the servant to the
door and stood now in the bedroom.
Before anyone could utter a protest he said in
the most classically villainous tone: “Ha, ha, having breakfast, eh?”
“Who are you? What right have you to come in
here,” said Djuna.
“I have every right: I’m a detective.”
“A detective!”
Lawrence’s eyes began to sparkle with
amusement.
The detective said to him; “And what are you
doing here, young man?”
“I’m having breakfast.” He said this in the
most cheerful and natural manner, continuing to drink his coffee and buttering
a piece of toast which he offered Djuna.
“Wonderful!” said the detective. “So I’ve
caught you. Having breakfast, eh? While your parents are breaking their hearts
over your disappearance. Having breakfast, eh? When you’re not eighteen yet and
they can force you to return home and never let you out again.” And turning to
Djuna he added: “And what may your interest in this young man be?”
Then Djuna and Lawrence broke into
irrepressible laughter, “I’m not the only one,” said Lawrence.
At this the detective looked like a man who had
not expected his task to be so easy, almost grateful for the collaboration.
“So you’re not the only one!”
Djuna stopped laughing. “He means anyone who is
broke can have breakfast here.”
“Will you have
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