There was not enough of it for some of the roofs and so they stood there, black and brown, shingle and thatch, arks containing the sooty expanses of attics-coal-black cathedrals, bristling with ribs of rafters, beams and spars-the dark lungs of winter winds. The rust-coloured earth was covered with a threadbare, meagre tablecloth of snow full of holes. Pages containing the descriptions of an outsider-dreamer, someone on the outside of the circle looking in, with sparkling, incisive cat’s eyes, missing nothing yet not so much participating, instead restlessly transforming the carefully observed into a secret world, an entire universe lived in mystery, in wintry nights ‘saturated with dreams and complications’, where light always struggles against the dark, in sleep and in dreams, life shrinking inside the house and expanding outside it.Ĭame the yellow days of winter, filled with boredom. Pages of a bygone era of publishing, these particular pages of which are drenched with dream-prose, yet so full of grey, so many allusions to nothingness. edition (though printed in Poland), with thick pages that every time you turn one you think you’ve paged through at least two. The library’s copy is from 1963, the first U.S.
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