Those
various sounds consistently indistinct, like intermingled
echoes
struck from thin glass successively at random—the
inflection disguised: your hair, the tails of two
fighting-cocks head to head in stone—like sculptured
scimitars re-
peating the curve of your ears in reverse order: your eyes,
flowers of ice
and
snow sown by tearing winds on the cordage of disabled
ships: your raised hand
an ambiguous signature: your cheeks, those rosettes
of blood on the stone floors of French châteaux, with
regard to which guides are so affirmative:
your other hand
a
bundle of lances all alike, partly hid by emeralds from
Persia
and the fractional magnificence of Florentine
goldwork—a collection of half a dozen little objects
made fine
with enamel in gray, yellow, and dragonfly blue: a lemon, a
pear
and three bunches of grapes, tied with silver: your dress, a
magnificent square
cathedral of uniform
and at the same time, diverse appearance—a species of
vertical vineyard rustling in the storm
of conventional opinion. Are they weapons or scalpels?
Whetted
to
brilliance by the hard majesty of that sophistication which
is su-
perior to opportunity, these things are rich
instruments with which to experiment but surgery is
not tentative: why dissect destiny with instruments
which
are more highly specialized than the tissues of destiny
itself?