A young man sang to me: What artist?

What artist crumbled the petals of the rose, and clambered up the sky and plucked a star, then dove into hell to snatch an ember, to build the palace of enchantment on your lips? What demon is this, who fastened to your hand a finger of red that you aim, murderous, at every heart?

And I answered coldly, with utter coldness: It is Carven: Carven lipstick.

The young man's ears turned red, and anger crouched upon his face: did he suppose that I, with my limited imagination, had failed to grasp the wrapped-up invitation in his chosen words — sweet, fragrant?

And the singer thundered as he retreated: Carven products... Carven... Car...

And I woke to the violence of the struggle between two words:

One that swerves off along dark channels — hollow, remote... — to dangle over the eyelid of truth, fading away: no music is heard in it, no meaning understood from it, no trace of it seen, however faint.

And one that springs from the conscience and runs in a straight line, to enter the eye of truth, to branch into every hearing, to settle in every feeling.

So why did this young man not say to me frankly: Your lips are tempting. Or your lips are ugly.

Or your lips are dry. Or your lips are beckoning. Or your lips are parched... or... or...?

Why did he not use one fitting word, storing up all the feeling, and all the sensations, and all the thoughts?

And then, why did my fitting word — clear, truthful — shock him, so that he caught up with the flock of retreating admirers, while I flung myself back into my nothingness, a film of weariness swallowing me!

I have wearied of vagueness. And weakness. And lying. And running from the face of hideous truths that pursue me. I shall stop pretending not to see them:

The lights died in the place where I take shelter, and at once I smelled the shoe crouching beside the bed. My soft body stretched out on the dry bedding, and I shut my eyes, fending off from my agitated nerves a rapid breathing that flowed from the other corner, where my sister sleeps.

Then I opened my eyes, drowning them in the shapes of the old, faded, cheap furniture set around me... then shut them again, when she who sleeps in the other corner turned into the fetid carcass of an animal the day had worn out: in drudgery to earn the daily crust.

And suddenly I laughed, bitterly:

This one will go back to being flung down in the other corner,

a fetid carcass, once she leaves off earning the crust and wastes a day at the ballot box, saying her word!

And I sank again into a strangled laugh, which I smothered with my bare forearm.

By day, I am the waking consciousness. I am the commanding personality. I am tenderness. I am fragrance. I am warmth. I am stubbornness. I am hope. I am striving... and I am the wish of every builder of a quiet, successful, assured future.

But at night — and this is what draws my tears in my fit of laughing —

I am a fetid carcass, thrown down alongside carcasses! I am a shoe drowning in a sea of shoe-smells. I am a trifling listener at a session of shouting in which is repeated... and repeated... the sham debate over virtue. The daily allowance. The dearness of meat and fruit. That borrowing from strangers is better than asking help of relatives. The daughter's place in the house. Then the debate over the duty of worshiping God, because God owns us. And at the mention of God there flows a stream of supplications and cries:

Our God, forgive us. Our God, increase Your bounty upon us. Our God, veil our honor. Our God, pardon us. Our God, lodge us in Your paradise!

And I am swept along with them: Our God... our God... our God...

xxxx