Page:Fire!! - 1926.djvu/37

November, 1926 clothe the silver moon in blue smoke garments truly smoke was like imagination

Alex sat up pulled on his shoes and went out  it was a beautiful night  and so large  the dusky blue hung like a curtain in an immense arched doorway  fastened with silver tacks  to wander in the night was wonderful  myriads of inquisitive lights  curiously prying into the dark  and fading unsatisfied  he passed a woman  she was not beautiful  and he was sad because she did not weep that she would never be beautiful  was it Wilde who had said  a cigarette is the most perfect pleasure because it leaves one unsatisfied  the breeze gave to him a perfume stolen from some wandering lady of the evening  it pleased him  why was it that men wouldn't use perfumes  they should  each and every one of them liked perfumes  the man who denied that was a liar  or a coward  but if ever he were to voice that thought  express it  he would be misunderstood  a fine feeling that  to be misunderstood  it made him feel tragic and great  but may be it would be nicer to be understood  but no  no great artist is  then again neither were fools  they were strangely akin these two  Alex thought of a sketch he would make  a personality sketch of Fania  straight classic features tinted proud purple  sensuous fine lips  gilded for truth  eyes  half opened and lids colored mysterious green  hair black and straight  drawn sternly mocking back from the false puritanical forehead  maybe he would made Edith too  skin a blue  infinite like night  and eyes  slant and grey  very complacent like a cat's  Mona Lisa lips  red and seductive as  as pomegranate juice  in truth it was fine to be young and hungry and an artist  to blow blue smoke from an ivory holder

here was the cafeteria it was almost as tho it had journeyed to meet him  the night was so blue  how does blue feel  or red or gold or any other color  if colors could be heard he could paint most wondrous tunes  symphonious  think  the dulcet clear tone of a blue like night  of a red like pomegranate juice  like Edith's lips  of the fairy tones to be heard in a sunset  like rubies shaken in a crystal cup  of the symphony of Fania  and silver  and gold  he had heard the sound of gold  but they weren't the sounds he wanted to catch  no  they must be liquid  not so staccato but flowing variations of the same caliber  there was no one in the cafe as yet  he sat and waited  that was a clever idea he had had about color music  but after all he was a monstrous clever fellow  Jurgen had said that  funny how characters in books said the things one wanted to say  he would like to know Jurgen  how does one go about getting an introduction to a fiction character  go up to the brown cover of the book and knock gently  and say hello  then timidly  is Duke Jurgen there  or  no because if entered the book in the beginning Jurgen would only be a pawn broker  and one didn't enter a book in the center  but what foolishness  Alex lit a cigarette  but Cabell was a master to have written Jurgen  and an artist  and a poet  Alex blew a cloud of smoke  a few lines of one of Langston's poems came to describe Jurgen

Langston must have known Jurgen suppose Jurgen had met Tonio Kroeger  what a vagrant thought  Kroeger  Kroeger  Kroeger  why here was Rene  Alex had almost gone to sleep  Alex blew a cone of smoke as he took Rene's hand  it was nice to have friends like Rene  so comfortable  Rene was speaking  Borgia joined them  and de Diego Padro  their talk veered to  James Branch Cabell  beautiful  marvelous  Rene had an enchanting accent  said sank for thank and souse for south  but they couldn't know Cabell's greatness  Alex searched the smoke for expression  he  he  well he has created a phantasy mire  that's it  from clear rich imagery  life and silver sands  that's nice  and silver sands  imagine lilies growing in such a mire  when they close at night their gilded underside would protect  but that's not it at all  his thoughts just carried and mingled like  like odors  suggested but never definite  Rene was leaving  they all were leaving  Alex sauntered slowly back  the houses all locked sleepy  funny  made him feel like writing poetry  and about death too  an elevated crashed by overhead scattering all his thoughts with its noise  making them spread  in circles  then larger circles  just like a splash in a calm pool  what had he been thinking  of  a poem about death