un roseau pensant

Everywhere nature is now growing so rapidly that it gets harder and harder to squeeze it in a parable. It meanders from the poetic out into a world beyond words in which there’s no speaking and writing but only sweating. Water and wine flow freely here. Nymphs coil themselves around the muscular arms and legs of men; fauns, their faces friendly grimacing masks. Put their hairy hands that move swiftly like small serpents on the buttocks and boobs of women. This is where games are played: the players are thirsty for victory or defeat. Both will be deeply felt: the winners attach themselves to their earnings like sinking divers to their respirators; the losers whine, howl and gnash their terrible teeth, threatening to bite, to pull blood. But somewhere else the next game is starting already and the players drift there like moist, breathing wood. What once appeared to the philosopher as a thinking reed has dissolved nicely into a soup of  primal instincts. Playing and joking, we try to forget the descent. We dance and make music into a long summer night. Kiss me, because I’m Irish says a tee-shirt seen on TV. After the games is before the games.

[First posted at: 100 Days Of Summer][Deutsche Version][Photo: children playing on the shore of the river Elbe near Hamburg, 1952.] See also: One Week On The Happy Isles, A-Minor Magazine.

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