The Advisor

The old grandfather sat outside the city gate with his cats and cigars, warming himself in winter sun or listening to summer evening rain. One day, a young person came to him to ask for counsel. After listening to a lengthy diatribe, the old man stroked a gaunt, black cat and said: “It is a difficult dilemma, and I do not envy your state. I sincerely wish you the best. Nevertheless, since you will not listen to heaven, to history, to nature, to your enemies, or to your friends and kin, you have only yourself to listen to. And one’s self is not always the best advisor. What is worse is that having gotten into the habit of not listening to everything and everyone else, you will most likely not listen to yourself, either. In the meantime, you might sweep the street and find something to give to the cats.”

The Lost Tale, or The Rusted Knight

What a strange tale, said the monk, and with a knife he excised the pages from a codex. A fire broke out in the aedificium, and he had to abandon the scriptorium to help draw water. The abbey burned. The copyist and most of the other monks perished when the tower fell, and only the detached scriptorium remained among the smoking ashes. One winter a knight rode into the ruins and sought shelter in the scriptorium. While searching for supplies, he found the excised pages on the floor, and sat down by the hearth to read them as he drank from a wineskin. It was the tale of a knight, who went riding out one fall in search of adventure. Not far down the road in a golden forest, he found a damsel stranded. The axel of her cart had snapped and the horse had run off. The knight made a temporary fix for the axel and attached his own horse to the cart and drove her to the town she had named, but she abused him the whole way in the vilest of language. At the town, he detached his horse and offered money to properly repair the cart, but she threw the coins in his face. What madness, both knights exclaimed simultaneously, and the knight in the tale sadly rode on toward the northern coasts. Near the cliffs, he saw an ocean dragon threatening a young noble man. Shielding himself from the hissing spray of flames and smoke, the knight set to work hewing off tail, limbs and wings until the dragon fell to the beach below and immolated itself. When the knight approached the youth to check for wounds and offer bandages, the youth began to weep and to scream, and hurled himself into the pyre where the dragon burned below. The knight sat down on the cliff to watch the calamity until the tide rose and a rainstorm blew in, the ocean waves washing away the charred remains of the victims. The knight prayed, rose, and mounted his horse. Word of his deeds spread, and he could not enter a town for the high king of the south had outlawed him, placed a bounty on him, and had sent out packs of knights like hungry wolves after him. The knight wandered northward, crossing the ancient wall, the old rivers, and the desolate moors. Archers in lone towers refused him hospitality and rained arrows upon him. When he drove wild boars away to save the peasants’ fields of oats and rye, they burned their own fields in horror. What madness, both knights sighed, as the lost knight of the tale stared at the smoking fields and prayed. That it was some curse he was well aware, but he did not know where to turn for succour. The heavens seemed as hard and silent as the stones of the heath. One evening, as the knight rode by a lake, he saw strange blue flames rise from the water. Dismounting, he ventured down to the pebbled shore, wading into the loud lapping of the waves. In the midst of the blue fire, he beheld the pale arm of a woman, partly clothed in a sleeve of samite, holding up an elegant gleaming sword. A gentle, sweet song seemed to emanate from her hidden form. Without undressing, the knight plunged in and swam toward the bright sword, when suddenly it disappeared and the arms of the woman in the lake snaked around him, crushing him with prodigious strength and dragging him down into the depths. For how long he wrestled in the deep, he knew not, until something like a rainfall of molten silver lit up the deep. The knight saw the liquescent form of an angel plunging a blade into the water sprite. Seconds later the angel lifted the knight with one arm, drawing him out of the deep and into the clear starry sky. They could have flown for an eternity. Below, the knight saw a great battle unfolding between knights like white specters and knights like ghostly shadows, hewing at each other above the passing clouds and drifting stars. They flew higher still until he could see the rings of planets and the tails of fiery comets. They flew towards a whirlpool of stars that circled furiously until suddenly there was a great explosion of stardust and he blacked out. It was early morning when he awoke beside an empty stone tower near the peak of a snowy mountain. All of his armour, his shield and his sword had rusted. Inside the tower were many books. What madness, said both knights, although the knight in the scriptorium lay down the page and took a drink. Most stories are utter lies, he sighed. What does one call a true history? For this is nothing less than the tale of my life! Once again, he took up the page and read. The rusted knight made a fire in the hearth of the tower and began to eat a book, reading a page, tearing it out, and chewing it in his mouth as the flames shimmered on his ferrous mail. What madness, said both knights in between mouthfuls, but it was midnight now and they were too tired to come to the next page.

The Old Lanterns

It was the godless month when rain lashes the coasts and leaves fall from the trees. The wandering monk entered an abandoned town full of smoke and mist. An old lantern bearing the name of paradise flickered outside a run-down building with missing roof tiles. It was most likely a tavern, and it also seemed to be the only place open. Calling out a greeting, the monk rolled the sliding door open, only to see the strangest sight. Only a few lanterns, some of them misshapen, were burning. Instead of the master standing behind the counter ordering around barmaids with trays, he saw a warrior sitting next to an empty suit of armour at the bar, pouring it some liquor and muttering a toast. There is nobody here, said the warrior. The monk nodded and sat down at the far end. The warrior got up, went behind the counter into the kitchen and returned with a filled bottle of liquor and a cup, which he placed in front of the monk. It is cold, the warrior said. The firewood was wet. The monk thanked him and downed a cup of liquor. You see me, the monk finally said. Yes, the warrior mumbled. And it appears you see me. Then we are not ghosts, the monk deduced. I don’t know, the warrior sighed, moving closer, leaving his armour to drink alone. Ghosts, the warrior repeated quietly. The rain beat a constant harsh rhythm on the roof. My horse did not follow me, the warrior explained. That is some consolation. A bitter consolation. And my wound seems healed, although I am not keen to undress and look. And I still have my bow,quiver and sword. They poured themselves more liquor and stared at the dusty furnishings and lamps. I was the only one left on the battlefield, said the warrior. I got up, and walked to the edge of the escarpment, and saw a meadow filled with the slain. I was the only one alive, though my wound was fatal and I did not have much time. The morning sky was beautiful, blue, with only scattered clouds. The larch and the birch had already turned golden. Bloody corpses lay everywhere. I wept out loud for the first time in my life. Then suddenly a clear, grating voice spoke behind me. Why are you weeping? Is it because you regret losing them? They are nothing other than you. I turned and saw a young priest, probably a heretic, with a cold, pale face, holding an accordion book of the sutras and some beads. What do you mean? I demanded. Those bodies, and every body you have ever encountered, is no one other than yourself. You have only ever met yourself. I regarded the corpses once more, and they were still lying there in the vanishing morning dew. When I turned back again, the priest was gone. My horse was nowhere to be found, yet I still felt the pain of falling from him after the enemy arrows struck me. I am a lie, I thought, and the way of the warrior is a lie. I walked into the forest. It began to rain, and I stumbled into this village. I have not seen a soul. A sound of thunder shook the mountains. They told me the same thing, said the monk. I had a raging fever, and I figured my days were done. One cool evening, I awoke. Dark monks like puppets surrounded my bed, smiling. Their smiles reminded me of those hideous festival masks or theatrical masks. Where are the others? I asked. For I did not know any of these people. They were not my friends. They were not the acolytes or monks of my monastery. I called for the abbot, but the radiant monks started to laugh. Who are you calling? they asked. I repeated the name of the abbot, and they laughed even more. That person is you, they said. No, I argued vehemently. The abbot is corpulent, kindly and good at mixing herbs. I am gaunt, younger, and fairly inept at medicine. They shook their heads in silence. In the world, you are the only one who exists. Everyone you have ever met is you. Madness, I cried. They began to make a magic lantern show on the temple wall. I could not bear to watch anymore. I ran screaming down the corridors, into the courtyard, and down the country lane. It is one thing to say that the world is an illusion, but to think that the world is uninhabited, that I have always been alone. The warrior laughed and said, I kill myself in a thousand ways for no reason. It makes no sense. The monk went into the kitchen. After some lengthy digging around, he got a fire going and heated some liquor, bringing the steaming bottles back to the counter. I had a concubine and a son, said the monk. You had nobody, said the warrior. You may as well have married your sister or mother—what difference would it have made? And don’t get any ideas about sharing a bedroll or a bath with me. The monk burst into laughter, spewing liquor all over the counter. Then the spell of laughter turned into weeping. She got angry with me one winter, the monk said. She walked into the stormy sea clutching our child, and a riptide washed them away. That is a cruel thing to endure, said the warrior. I betrayed my lord, he said after a long pause. Only my army was to be massacred. The battle got out of hand, and everyone died. The monk refilled the warrior’s cup. My concubine was my aunt and my wet nurse, said the monk. She was still my wet nurse when she took her life and the life of our child. The mountains of the north are truly cold. There was nothing to say. They just listened to the rain and stared at the old lanterns.

The Murder Trials

Though not a renowned or even respected detective, he had closed more cases than most. In the end, the political intrigues of a supreme court justice and some academics banished him to the archives, where younger detectives and lawyers avidly sought his counsel in secret. Middle aged and broke, he lived in a crumbling apartnent of cracked walls, molded window sills, and rotting furniture, where he studied law on his spare time and visited his neighbours, many of them criminals or low-lifes whose files had crossed his desk before. Despite deploring their lifestyle, he was struck by their honesty and even hospitality. Thus he brought them groceries, cigarettes, sometimes even cash. He sat with them and listened to old tales of narrow escapes, regrets and confessions. One evening in the winter, before the new year, he was invited to a party on an upper floor. To get there seemed equivalent to climbing a mountain or navigating the tunnels and galleries of a mine. At last, he reached the apartment and entered a magical world of obsolete jazz, laughter, fragrant bodies slow dancing, and strong drink. Midnight struck, and in the middle of a lengthy and enjoyable discussion of ancient martyrologies with a young woman with dark eyes, he looked around at the shadows, blue paper lanterns, and sparkling champagne glasses and felt a premonition of sadness—the end had come. Though he was not sure what was ending, it seemed clear it was ending, if it had not already ended. In the early hours of the morning, he went home, went to sleep, and forgot about martyrs and young women with dark eyes. Within a few months, the world descended into plague and revolution. Running into neighbours was infrequent, and discussing anything of substance even rarer. One evening, some acquaintances arrived with a bottle of sambucca and some files. They sat down at his table without invitation and poured the liquor into his glasses, beckoning to him to come sit and have a drink. Horrible serial murders had broken out, and they could not seem to solve two different cases. The first murderer always struck with a noose. The second always shot his victims. All of the bodies were staged with dramatic artistry. The archivist and former investigator opened the files and looked through photographs, testimonies, reports, and maps. Slowly, he sipped the sambucca and thought. Not a word passed from his lips as he examined the evidence. When his glass was empty, he looked at his colleagues and said that the investigation would have to wait. There was only one killer. Both cases were one case. The perpetrator was likely a magistrate or high-ranking official. It would be impossible to arrest him–or her–and bring the matter to trial. It would even be dangerous to continue investigating. Though the weaponry and geography differed, the elaborate staging of the bodies in both cases showed remarkable similarities as well as almost identical sources of historical and cultural allusions, albeit interpreted differently according to they type of victim. The head or upper neck would always have a bullet hole or noose attached—the rest of the body would be neatly dismembered and arranged with spaces between the parts—arms, legs, torso, hands and feet. The victims of both cases, while always female, included almost every other demographic. At first glance, this could be confusing, but in reality it was consistent with the statement the suspect was attempting to make about all of the citizenry. What is the statement? the others asked. The magistrate or official had a fractured or bifurcated soul—politically, religiously, philosophically, but he or she is not necessarily a centrist or anything like that. Rather, the suspect is possibly one who has shifted between opposing parties to the surprise of loyalists, antagonists, and even traitors, but somehow without facing any consequences. This should not come as too much of a surprise—renowned mathematicians and artists throughout history did the same through numerous regimes in the blood-stained revolutions centuries ago—each of their enduring books or works of art bear dedications to successive rulers who extirpated their predeccesors. The visitors scratched their faces and sipped from their glasses. What is he or she confessing? That the revolution, new as it is, has already failed, as the world before it failed, the investigator explained. That he or she has failed. Those victims that were shot were often staged with religious relics or props—bread, wine, candles, icons. They represent the good of the old republic that is lost, goodness that at some level even irritated or nauseated the suspect because of its goodness. The available biographical information of these victims suggests they mostly lived up to these old standards of ethics or goodness. And yet, more than the goodness, it is lostness that matters here. That is what is enshrined. The victims that were staged with pagan or secular symbols—empty libation cups, earth soaked in blood or wine, weighing scales, books of law, sheaves of wheat, swords, tools, serpents—they represent what could not, what will not be realized. These victims failed to revolutionize, to fully become what they had set out to become, or they retained the vices of the old republic in some way. Why only women? one of the detectives asked. I am not sure, said the investigator. At the risk of sounding—problematic?—women have been employed in both progressive and regressive symbolism. Virgin mothers, good mothers, chaste saints, redeemed prostitutes, working women of the factories, female soldiers, nurses, famous women scientists, for example. Many virtues have feminine personifications or allegorical figures or even feminine nouns: justice, prudence, charity, and wisdom. Or it may just be the sexual preference and pathological character of the murderer. And what is the real motive, then? What is the real confession? Why confess? the other detectives asked in woeful chorus. The investigator refilled his glass and placed several photographs on the table. They could have been stills from a motion picture. Nostalgia and regret, he said. There is nothing more painful, nothing more humiliating, nothing more damning. It may be the case that all of the victims are avatars of two allegorical figures, twin personifications of lostness. That is what dismembers history. That is what dismembers the revolution and the world. That is what dismembers the magistrate. That is what has dismembered these poor victims.

The Chemist

It was a long way down the colonnades, through labyrinths of high walls with terracotta roof tiles, past gardens with vines, cypresses and cats, and into the shadows behind an old church where he entered the arcade. An icon had been painted on the wall next to the entrance. Candles burned in niches. Passing a cloth merchant, a silversmith, and another cloth merchant, he came to the last shop, the apothecary. Inside, the wooden counter and cabinets were dark, almost black. Brass labels and numbers shimmered from drawers behind the counter. Cabinets and shelves sparkled with bottles and jars. It was a while before the chemist appeared, a statuesque woman in black with fiery red hair. She wished him a good evening, and took out paper and a quill to write down his order. I am not here for medicine, but for a consultation of sorts. It is said that you are not only a great toxicologist, but also the greatest amanthomancer, capnomancer, carromancer, cottobomancer, cryomancer, cyclicomancer, encromancer, eromancer, hematomancer, lampadomancer, letnomancer, lithomancer, logomancer, lychnomancer, oryctomancer, papyromancer, pessomancer, photomancer, phyllomancer, plumbomancer, pyromancer, sideromancer, somatomancer, spodomancer, stareomancer, umbromancer, and zygomancer. The woman laughed, and said, In other words, a good chemist? The visitor did notknow how to respond, and stood thinking for a while. At last, almost tearfully, he asked her if potions could tell anything about the times, the terrain and the tyrants who ruled? That sounds poetic, she said. I am not a magician or medium, but ask me your question, and I will try to answer. What indeed is the question? he thought aloud. Legends say that there is a flower in the east, which changes its colour from dark blue to white to rose depending on the soil it is planted in. And since people themselves have good and bad humours, might personalities or human characters also become either medicines or poisons to society and government? The chemist nodded thoughtfully, and said that it seemed possible that if vice or virtue mastered a soul, just as medicine or poison mastered a body, then a person could either be toxic or therapeutic. And some people were not merely poisons or medicines but reagents that revealed the medicine and poison in the citizens. What is the question? the man exclaimed once more. And how can I ask questions in a time of great lies, whispered secrets, closed doors and burned books? It is not easy, she admitted. Seeing him in such distress, the woman turned to a cabinet, fetched a bottle and poured out a liquid into an elegant but humble green glass goblet. The man took a drink, and asked her what it was. It is wine, she said. Good, he mumbled. It is wine, then. I want to know which tyrant and gonfaloniere is the poison and which is the antidote! The woman began to scribble on the prescription paper, and said softly that apricots are very sweet, but their seeds contain poisons that will kill you. Wolfbane and monkshood are beautiful, but if you touch their leaves too much, you will perish. Some medicines are very bitter, but once administered, cure a person quickly. And some bitter, foul-smelling herbs will cure one problem, but the body cannot tolerate the side effects or the damage done to stomach, heart and liver. And then there is belladonna–wonderful for the eyes and for cramps, harmless in small doses, but deadly in the right dose. Most citizens fear the belladonna, or the bitter herbs, and yet happily swallow apricot seeds by the mouthful as they play with the leaves of wolfbane. It ends before they are even aware of what they have eaten or touched. There is also another kind of sickness–when the body wastes away or its organs break down from excess. The body is broken, and no medicine can cure that. That is about all I know of politics. She fetched another glass and poured herself some wine. It is good talking to a sane person, the visitor said, and placed a mound of silver coins on the counter. She pushed the coins back toward him and sipped her wine.

The Evangelist

In the great city of the twin seas, where there were ruined temples and soaring cathedrals, stone towers and elegant ships, seagulls and snowfalls, a poor priest went into a tavern. He prayed at the icon in a corner, sat down, and ordered some plum liquor. A man in religious robes but built like a boxer sat down next to him and ordered coffee. The priest saw that his prayer had been answered, and explained to the rogue monk that his sermons repeatedly failed. He pulled out some parchment and handed it to the monk to read. After reading it and drinking his coffee, the monk said, “This is a beautiful, tenderhearted sermon. There is not a harsh word in it. And did you deliver this sermon in a voice of equal kindness and softness?” The young priest nodded, saying: “I believe so.” The monk laughed, stood up, and began to read the sermon, shouting and screaming the golden, honeyed words of the sermon until every patron, prostitute, barmaid and even the innkeeper were on their knees, weeping and crossing themselves, praying for God’s mercy. The young priest understood. They both reassured the guests, bought them a round of coffee, and told them to take communion the following day. Not long after, the young priest ran into the monk again at the market by the wharf, where crates of beautiful silver fish glinted in the winter sun. The priest was beside himself. For a while, things had worked, but one day the lectionary called for brimstone. He pulled out the parchment on which he had written his sermon, and showed it to the monk. The monk read it quickly. “And did you shout and thunder at them?” he asked. The young priest admitted that he had. The monk began to sing gently and sweetly, in the kindest, most heartfelt tones imaginable, the words of the sermon. In a short time, he was surrounded by kneeling sailors, workers, merchants, and captains, drinking in the words of judgment with tears in their eyes. The monk finished, blessed and dismissed the crowd, and bought some fish for his dinner. The young priest was amazed. The last time they encountered each other, the young priest was gently singing in a square below a great tower overlooking the sea. It was not a sermon, however, but a mere announcement of some historical facts, presumably to explain some recent news or proclamation. In seconds, the crowd was upon him, beating him and cutting him up with their swords. The monk was too late and too outnumbered to save the priest, but this did not hinder him from breaking a few crania and backbones. When he got to the dying priest, he tried to wrap up his wounds, but the poor man was quickly expiring. “What have I done wrong this time?” the dying priest gasped. “Nothing,” the rogue monk sighed. “The sheep are broken and the world is wrong.”

The Word Problem

Golden oak leaves blew across the sidewalk when the man stepped out of the bookstore. Near the bus stop, a beggar sat on the pavement, asking for coins. The commuter truthfully said that he did not have any and gazed down the street, waiting for the bus to appear. The beggar continued to mutter and argue with himself, and the other began to regret that he had not given him anything. When he glanced back, he saw the poor man struggling with the wind, a rolling paper and a bag of loose tobacco. The commuter reached for his pack of cigarettes, and offered the man a few. The beggar was about to accept them, but seemed ashamed and confused, and said that maybe he should not. The commuter insisted, and the beggar accepted two and lit one. Only moments later, the other unlit cigarette came flying through the air and landed at the base of the oak tree. Whether or not it had been the wind, one could not say. The poor man smoked intently and quietly, his stormy blue eyes gazing beyond matter and time. The bus arrived, and when the commuter boarded, he noticed that the passengers were arguing passionately in sign language.

The Anthology

One day, an official saw a shabby youth with large hands reading a book behind an abandoned temple. When he learned that the youth could write as well as read, he offered him a minor but unusual post in the civil service as a calligrapher. The poor youth was content to live alone in abandoned temples eating scraps, but the prospect of having some extra coins to buy books thrilled him, and he readily accepted the position. In that city there was a great courtyard with giant elms where citizens met, sold trinkets, played chess, or discussed the news from the capital or the frontier. The official set up a large bureau, a giant affair of strong, polished wood, equipped with inkstones, ink wells, brushes, bottles of water, old dictionaries, anthologies of poetry, law codes, works of philosophy and various sutras. Morning till evening, the youth—or minor calligrapher as he was now styled—would practice his penmanship and answer any simple questions from passersby. Should there be a disturbance, he would alert the guards. Should anyone need help, he would give them aid. And so the youth set to work, copying out sacred texts or promulgations, drinking tea and water, rolling and smoking the occasional cigarette, and only leaving his post for short breaks or when his shift ended at twilight, the hour of the gathering doves and sparrows. One of his first visitors was his father, who denounced him as weak for accepting such an unworthy position. Others joined in, including his betrothed, who ridiculed his handwriting, and even his brothers. Nothing could be more futile or impractical than to be a mannequin with a brush, a connoiseur of ancient texts nobody read, a mouth for a decayed empire and dynasty that nobody would follow or remember in a short period of time. The years passed, and the minor calligrapher worked among the elms and sparrows, his penmanship hardly improving. Most of his original poems or copied texts would remain unfinished, for he found that he often had to put down his brush to help an old man carry water, to get a doctor for a widow dying with consumption, to summon coroners and guards, to recite a prayer for the idiots and the mad, to write letters to appelate courts on behalf of the blind or illiterate, to sweep up fallen leaves, to clean clogged ditches, to mend sandals, to wash the dust off the pavement, to teach the urchins a few letters here and there so that they might one day read, to console the migrant barbarians begging or looking for work. The more the years passed, the more he felt exhausted and inept. Nothing had really changed; he read his books by lamplight in the abandoned temple before bed, he drank strong cups of tea and ate noodles, he dampened his brush with ink and watched his spidery characters swirl across the various grades of paper while daydreaming of the lost cities and sacred mountains to the northwest where there were said to be hidden libraries. One day, he wondered if he might not just hang himself from an elm tree or thrown his body into a well. As he thought these things, an ancient man in imperial robes approached and demanded to see what he had written in the past few years. Exhausted, embarrassed and nervous, the minor calligrapher handed him a tattered anthology of his best work from the past two decades. The poor brushwork glared off of every page, and the minor calligrapher wondered if he might not be saved from his misery by a swift decapitation. As you see, he said to the high-ranking visitor, I have not improved one whit in the past twenty years. The official looked at him. Have you forgotten me, my friend? the ancient one asked. Suddenly, the calligrapher recognized his benefactor, whom he had not seen for a quarter of a century. Weeping with shame, he bowed deeply. Why do you weep? the official asked, gently touching his shoulder. Since I appointed you, literacy has risen in this city and province, crime has decreased, and the laws of heaven and earth have been honoured by your steadfast work. Every poor character you have written or copied is the face of someone you inspired with your silent work or comforted with your helpful hands. Allow me the honour of keeping this anthology, for its calligraphy surpasses anything I have seen throughout the land.

The Epistle

In the monastery, the inquistors found the visiting confessor at a wooden desk in a barren cell, surrounded by books of world history, geography, anthropology and philosophy. In a corona of candlelight they saw the typescripts and manuscripts and his inked hands. What is this calligraphy and typography all about? one of them demanded. I am writing an epistle, the confessor replied. Towhat end? To the ends of the earth! To the world! In the early days, the apostle wrote epistles to the great cities to share his wisdom and his vision of glory. Many centuries of darkness have passed, and there is seemingly no law or good will left on earth. I thought of writing my own epistle to the great cities, to thank them for the good they have done, to praise their monuments and books, to admire their peoples and to wish them well. I would not write such things, said one. The cities do not wish to be praised. It will only make them feel worse—they will see all the more clearly how far and how deep they have fallen into darkness, and they will resent you for it. Another inquisitor agreed, saying, Moreover, such unqualified praise could cause them to ignore their own evil. It would make them feel justified in their pride, animosity and aggression. An epistle like yours would plant the seeds of smoke and famine. A third said that such a fawning epistle would belittle the great cities and trap them in typologies they had no interest in inhabiting or incarnating. It would be a letter of mirages and betrayals. One by one they left the cell. Crushed, the confessor stared at his silent towers of books and felt his brain turn into ice. That night, his heart broke, he suffered a grand epileptic fit, and lost part of his reason. In the days to come, weeping but almost catatonic, he continued to compose his letter in secret to all the invisible cities of the world—cities of damask and morrocco, cities of delftware and china, cities of port and sherry, cities of roman candles and greek fire, cities of rugby and japanning, cities of afghans and astrakhans, cities of the siamese and burmese, cities of landaus and leyden jars, cities of berlins and limousines, cities of homburgs, cities of nankeen, cities of bikinis and chicago screws, cities of mocha, assam, keelung and darjeeling, cities of java and sumatra, cities of turkish and virginia tobacco, cities of lancashires and parchment, cities of indigo and india ink. 

The Theatre

Masks of wood, papier-maché and metal glimmered above ornate costumes in black, gold and silver. An orange moon and stars of paper and paint burned in the background scenery, followed by mineral mountains, castles, wastelands, moors dotted with wildflowers, royal blue skies with angelic clouds, coasts like shards of green, blue and colorless glass. Kingdoms divided, cities burned, kings ravished their princesses, beggars philosophized, mechanics invented, merchants whored along endless trade routes, and the weather ate the faces off the actors. One of them stepped forth into the barrage of applause as the curtains tidily hid away the gibbets, and cried out: What did you come to see, the events of history or impassioned monologues? The background scenery or the voices of the actors? The mirror or the mirrored? The treachery of things or the traitors among us? The machinery of the stage or the long hidden playwright? The midnight-black curtain?