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which become stars decking the firmament of her body and soul. She is, herself, as dark as the night sky,
and she is beckoning, and laughing with a hint of mockery. She is one, and she is a thousand, and she is a
million. She is not temptation (Iam temptation) but promise, promise fulfilled a thousand times, and times
without number.
While she dances, the stars that she wears circle and wheel and sparkle and shine, and sing the hollow
lament of the rhythm of the spheres. The pallor of the stones in their setting, and their life and their
vibration fill me with an amber liquid sensation which drags at my throat and warms me within my breast
like a glowing coal. The chaos of the cold stone lights and their sensuous welcome make me mad with
misunderstanding.
And when she lays her body on the ground and allows herself to flow and fuse, she smiles with
transport, the blackness of her eyes is limitless, and the lissome curling of her body as gentle as slow
water in a level stream. She taunts me with her eyes and bewilders me with her gemstones, and she
moves herself into strange imaginary constellations as she rolls. She is free and honest and she does not
pretend, but the music of her movements has only lies to tell me. Her arms and her legs, her thighs and
her breasts shine with constant sweat like distant stardust, drawing my vision beyond the limits of
resolution, where I can see nothing real except with the treacherous eye of my mind. Her breasts, when
she is clothed, bear shells of ruby-red sarcophrase and stars of white sapphire. Even then, she disturbs
my silence as deeply as my own fears, and the very scent of her body casts my thoughts into a wild abyss
of hope and dream and foreboding from which I hurl myself with desperation and dread. Hidden menace
dances perilously close to haloed triumph in the sonorous melancholy of the pavane, and I am forever
looking over my shoulder lest some faceless presence be lurking there to threaten my exclusive reward.
I think I see before me the echoes of another existence, peopled with madmen and worse still mad
gods. I look at her, and out of the corner of my eye I see a looking-glass Alice, a strange fragment of a
long-destroyed incarnation. In the lamplight stars of her decorated skin, I can almost see diamonds on a
pack of playing cards, and jacks and queens and bullet-riddled aces. And a hundred thousand children
and young men who claim to be the faded hours of Harker Lee, consigned and consigning to the oblivion
of dead memory and replowed engrammic earth.
Who sends these ghosts to haunt me?
And the candle whose light is reflected in the facets of the stones of enchantment flickers and dies, and
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there is no light to fire my fancies and my fantasies, and I lay myself to sleep in the cradle of her thighs.
But in sleep, there comes no rest, for I pass only from dream to dream to dream, and there is no
possible remission in the fateful continuity of life. I feel that the constancy of the flow of images is breaking
me apart; I cannot stand the everlasting flow of it all, and I can no longer split the current of images into
separate scenes. I am caught in a long transition, dreaming that I am dreaming that I am dreaming, and I
flee down endless corridors of sleep, rebound through an infinity of mirror images, with not the least
prospect of escape. There is no court of appeal. And yet, why should I need one? You are dead, Harker
Lee, whoever you were. You cannot haunt me why am I forced to live with these the residue of your
futile life why? Who pursues me? I am alone. In all the universe, there is only myself. I am all that there
is: I, mock-Satan, hiding my face behind a million masks and discarding a million more. There is no one
here but my victims.
No one.
Leave me alone. Iwill not be a prisoner in my own skull. Iwill not yield to my foolish fears. If the hound
of hell himself is after me ... why, then, I will wait for him and he will lick my hand.
Yet the ghost whispers in my ear that you have me prisoner, that you have me locked in the condemned
cell. Who is this ghost? There isno man-in-a-death-mask. There never was.
Who dares to put me to the question? Who dares to pretend to be my judge? This is hell, nor am I out
of it, and I am Lord in hell as in all the universe. There is no one....
I didnot see Attila born.
I didnot see the sun rise on Agincourt.
I didnot see the collapse of the Aztec Empire.
I wasnot present at the death of Tamburlaine.
This hound of hell is chasing me, through all the fading years he seeks me still to seize me in his savage
teeth and stain the waters of the world with my heartfelt tears.
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