…what I am relating is not a story, But an unsullied history—my history. I have lived an honorable life, In a style that the world is losing. […] Home, I am home. More than stone and railing, More than shade and ground, More than roof and wall. I’m all of these. I have a soul. I feel as if I’m a sick house, A leper’s house. […] Someone needs to come And shut the window Of the dining room, that has been left open— The bats came in last night… Someone needs to come and tidy up and shout. Everything. I don’t know why there has been This strange silence for so many days: A silence without contours, without an edge, That soaks through me like dull water. […] Nobody can say That I’ve been a silent house; On the contrary, on many, many occasions I’ve torn the pale silk of dreams— A nocturnal enveloping cocoon— With my piano resounding in the dead of night… And people, without knowing it Are as attached to their houses As a mollusk to its shell. And this attachment cannot be broken without Something dying in the house or the person…Or in both. |
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