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Extra info for Gogol's Wife and Other Stories
She is familiar with that's very unlikely. The bush-el is chilly, the bush-el is co-o-old (to the track of “ Bandolino stanco” ). Softness with softness, that’s the way it could be. however the beast hasn’t torn off something, it hasn’t torn off her such a lot gentle bud, there within the crevice of her thighs, to be able to consume it. The beast desires to suck her in every single place. rather well, permit it. discomfort? yet what are you asserting, milady? N o, there’s no longer the slightest soreness. The beast easily hangs there, sucking. enable it suck, there’s no ache. Rosalba in simple terms gazes at a bit pottery vase, so lovely with its fingers on its hips. And whilst is the discomfort going to come back? probably it isn’t ever speculated to come. terrible little beast, blind and dreadful, grey and slimy, what are you 1^6 The loss of life of the okay ing of France doing? yet I don’t mind—go on, move on. yet now, without warning, this seriousness. There’s no element, although, in combating by contrast both. ache, soreness? N o, pleasure. N o, no longer that both, however the small vase starts to maneuver, creating a broad circle, a circle so vast that if it is going on like that it'll definitely be carried means out at the back of the celebrities. goodbye, gorgeous little vase. And the cement flooring and the sink and the partitions and the soiled yellow beams, first in a whirl, then pulling again, all vanish. glance: on that pearly grey, the colour of the void, the rind floats back. Silence. but not anything is left and that not anything is flecked through a silent uprush of lymph, by means of a pouring of vacancy into vacancy, by way of hyacinth skies pouring into skies, via peach-colored universes pouring into universes. Silence and an earsplitting noise. And now the uprush of jadelike lymph turns into clearer. It doesn't bubble up, it flees. It flows irremediably and softly, it purifies, liberates, incorporates off lifestyles (life? ), every thing. The blood, the veins, the bones and bowels dissolve and movement away in lymph. Purification, liberation! Liberation and maybe— definite, yes—life! The lymph melts, flows. It flows. Neither unhappiness nor pleasure, simply because neither of those is really priceless. invaluable (because it's) is the melting of the lymph, the flowing. It flows and the beast is not any longer there and Rosalba is once more by myself, this time status at the grey cement flooring, bare and white with the crimson shadow of her stomach, and, reduce down, her triangular shadow. yet what approximately existence? And now (perhaps a few lymph emerging up back? ) now whatever pulling, firstly faint, then sharp, inside of, down there. yet what, what's it? Blood, convinced blood. a calm circulate of blood which flows down from the crimson hole, flows and The dying of the ok ing of France iq j spreads and weaves a triangular movie, obvious as a cascade. but when it's peaceable, there’s little need to be alarmed. but, but. . . the blood is filling the full room, the triangle narrows, narrows, disappearing within the emerging lake with a relaxed, tender submergence of sound. Rosalba seems to be at herself—soon the triangle might be long gone and the blood can have reached her hips. Oh, with a view to wake up, to run away. Run away? The blood is a relaxing, stunning tub. it isn't sizzling, yet cool.