#533 Untitled

The whole lot is just like him: the girls chatting on their way to the workshop,
the young men laughing on their way to the office,
the big-bosomed maids returning with their heavy purchases,

the delivery boys running their first errands—all
of this is one and the same unconsciousness
diversified among different faces and bodies,

like marionettes moved by strings leading
to the same fingers of an invisible hand.

Says Carlyle,
and that's partly true.

Beginning in the mid-eighteenth century,
a terrible disease progressively swept over civilization.

The moonlight over the high sea is the colour of lightning,

and what it all means is that the palace of
the prince I never was is now ruins in a distant past.

The sound from the street gets louder,
as if a door had opened,
and the doorbell rings.

Vanity all by itself,
unaccompanied by pride,
which is rare but possible,
manifests itself through audacity.

Or even I know that I'm not writing
symbols for the gods alone to understand? No matter.

—CecĂ­lia, The Charades