Blue on Blue by Quentin S. Crisp

Author:Quentin S. Crisp [Crisp, Quentin S.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781943813001
Amazon: 1943813000
Publisher: Snuggly Books
Published: 2015-12-06T23:00:00+00:00

Miracles are made of trust. Leave this ground untrodden for all our dreams to grow.

Reading these notices relieved slightly the pressure I felt in relation to Jenny’s hand.

Partly—not wholly—I think I was relinquishing Jenny’s hand in that manner—like a boy enfeebled but restless with illness—because I wished to stand a little back from her and include her in what I was seeing—make her part of the view.

People who reflect, struggle all their lives to put things into words. If they do well, sometimes they will feel they have managed a succinct hint at what they actually think or experience. Jenny at Buena Vista was the epitome of the need to reflect and of the impossibility of ever reaching the edges of one’s reflection to define what reflection itself is and examine the very terms of reflection. (All communication takes place between people who already know, which is why we find logicians so exasperating—they wink without knowing it.) She was also, in that place, the epitome of ‘things as they are’ overpowering the need for reflection. She was those two opposites, because—so obvious I had not thought of it till then—she was a girl for whom there was no elsewhere. So, now, examining the soft Rushmore of her face, I felt myself close to the zero co-ordinates of all that begs to be articulated, all that beggars articulation.

“…the branch blossoms outside the window.”

I caught the end of something she was saying to me. She was approaching, with the ghostliness of a lace curtain stirred by a breeze, a place where the iron railings, surmounting a low brick wall, met with a brick pillar, something like a gatepost, except that there was no gate. It was one of many such pillars at regular intervals. Perhaps because it created a kind of frame, or gave Jenny something to lean her shoulder against, she seemed naturally drawn to it. Her face was away from me, toward the railings and the park, but she turned her head just a little to direct these last words to me. I had the strangest impression then. I would like to say it was the very opposite of déjà vu. I had the sense that everything was starting with those last words that I had heard. Perhaps there had been a world before, but there was a complete disjunction between that world and this. This world was underwritten by no past of its own; it was borrowing a past, borrowing memories, fumbling in its borrowing, but essentially born of nothing, to fill a vacuum with burning and burgeoning strangeness. Those very words might have conjured this new world, since they seemed the spirit and the skeleton of its innermost nature. It was a blossoming. On a branch. Outside a window. And Jenny was a solid, flaming apparition who was the very opposite of the one I’ve been waiting for. She was not simply a mundane stranger, but an organised identity completely new to time, yet with the gesture of an arm, the arch of smile or eyebrow, holding up the vaulted pavilion of sensory experience.

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