his prostitute’s rouge-varnished face: with choking secret laughter and with kissy, wetty talkie he cajoles her; she answers in swart choked whisperings with her sudden shrill prostitute’s scream of merriment.
A morning rattle of cans and ashes on the pavements. With rich jingle-jangle and hollow clitter-clatter a Paris milk wagon passes. Suddenly, a screak of brakes: all over the world the moaning screak of brakes, and racing, starting motors.
Across the street in faint grey-bluish light the news kiosk is opening up.
“Est-ce que vous avez Le New York’Erald?”
“Non, monsieur. Ce n’est pas encore arrivé.”
“Et Le Tchicago Treebune?”
“Ça pas plus, monsieur. C’est aussi en retard ce matin.”
“Merci. Alors: Le Matin.”
“Bien, monsieur.”
Passage of leaden sous: the smell of ink-worn paper, dear to morning throughout the world. A big Hachette truck swerves up, an instant halt, the flat heavy smack of fresh-corded ink-warm paper on the pavement, a hoarse cry and instant loud departure!
Ça aussi, monsieur. Sing ye bi-i-i-rds, sing! Light up your heart, O son of man!
Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, with charm of earliest birds!
Some things will never change: some things will always be the same: brother we cannot die, we must be saved; we are united at the heart of night and morning.
A good time now, just before dawn and morning. Surfeit of sterile riches: harvests of stale bought love: the burnt-out candle-end of night, the jaded blaze of crimson light, in shattered bars; numb weary lust—which one? which one?
The prostitutes at daybreak, the dead brilliance of electric smiles.
Tired, tired, tired.
Tuesday: Woman who sang tonight at Concert Mayol—She was near 50—magnificent teeth—so good they made me uneasy—Those things in her head—but how? They keep them so. This comes to me—that they spend all their time looking after them: there is something filthy about this.
