My Words in her mind: cold polished stones sinking through a quagmire. >>>> Giacomo Joyce 41 Giacomo Joyce 39 <<<< Editorial <<<<

Loggione. The sodden walls ooze a steamy damp. A symphony of small fuses the mass of huddled human forms: sour reek of armpits, nozzled oranges, melting breast ointments, mastick water, …

She stands black-robed at the telephone. Little timid laughs, little cries, timid runs of speech suddenly broken … Parlerò colla mamma … Come! chook, chook! come! The black pullet is …

She says that, had The Portrait of the Artist been frank only for frankness‘ sake, she would have asked why I had given it to her to read. O you …

Once more in her chair by the window, happy words on her tongue, happy laughter. A bird twittering after storm, happy that its little foolish life has fluttered out of …

Operated. The surgeon‘s knife has probed in her entrails and withdrawn, leaving the raw jagged gash of its passage on her belly. I see her full dark suffering eyes, beautiful …

The housemaid tells me that they had to take her away at once to the hospital, poveretta, that she suffered so much, so much, poveretta, that it is very grave …

Nebenbei bemerkt: indem Renoir sich vom Buchstaben der Stevensonschen Erzählung löste, gelang ihm wieder einmal eine Verfilmung, die dem Geist des Schriftstellers näher ist als jede andere. André Bazin: >>>> …

She walks before me along the corridor and as she walks a dark coil of her hair slowly uncoils and falls. Slowly uncoiling, falling hair. She does not know and …