He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. She was not altogether surprised when she found a deer, gutted of its entrails and strung with a garland of flowers, on the cave’s doorstep one humid summer morning. The music confused and distracted her, and made her struggle against a feeling of intoxication. She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. I am afraid because I love you, so that the mere thought of failure hurts. ” He caught up and went on with a sort of clumsiness: “Let me present you with them and be your voter. She will take me in until I can make some plans.
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