Jan Pieters Sweelink. The quaint name of the old Dutch musician makes all beauty seem quaint and far. I hear this veriations for the clavichord on an old air: Youth …

– I am not convinced that such activities of the mind or body can be called unhealthy – She speaks. A weak voice from beyond the cold stars. Voice of …

A soft crumbled peagreen cover drapes the lounge. A narrow Parisian room. The hairdresser lay here but now. I kissed her stocking and the hem of her rustblack dusty skirt. …

The spread under my feet carpets for the son of man, They await my passing. She stands in the yellow shadow of the hall, a plaid cloak shielding from chills …

As I come out of Ralli‘s house I come upon her suddenly as we both are giving alms to a blind beggar. She answers my sudden greeting by turning and …

My voice, dying in the echoes of its words, dies like the wisdom-wearied voice of the Eternal calling on Abraham through echoing hills. She leans back against the pillowed wall: …

Whirling wreaths of grey vapour upon the heath. Her face, how grey and grave! Dank matted hair. Her lips press softly, her sighing breath comes through. Kissed. >>>> Giacomo Joyce …

Her body has no smell: an odourless flower. On the stairs. A cold frail hand: shyness, silence: dark languor-flooded eyes: weariness. >>>> Giacomo Joyce 43 Giacomo Joyce 41 <<<< Editorial …

These quiet cold fingers have touched the pages, foul and fair, on which my shame shall glow for ever. Quiet and cold and pure fingers. Have they never erred? >>>> …