“There are seven of them. Or better say, half a dozen or so, that gives more leeway. They are struggling up the dunes, stumbling in the sand, squabbling, complaining, wanting sympathy, wanting to be elsewhere. That, most of all: to be elsewhere. There is no elsewhere, for them. Only here, in this little round.‘List!’‘Listing.’‘Leaky as a –’‘So I said, I said.’‘Everything feels strange.’‘That captain, so-called.’‘I did, I said to him.’‘Cythera, my foot.’‘Some outing.’‘Listen!’Behind them the boat... leans, stuck fast on a sandbank, canted drunkenly to starboard, fat-bellied, barnacled, betrayed by a freak wave or a trick of the tide and the miscalculations of a tipsy skipper. They have had to wade through the shallows to get to shore. Thus things begin. It is a morning late in May. The sun shines merrily. How the wind blows! A little world is coming into being.Who speaks? I do. Little god.Licht spied them from afar, with his keen sight. It was so long since he had seen their like that for a moment he hardly knew what they were.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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