Capitolo 21
package--"Ah, Bella the small god of love is praised
for a true person in love--You! Then it is a portrait of _me_
what do you want? The _real me_! The _truly me_! No mere carnation
and white similarity? Any actual test also of 'it desiccated and
yellow age?' Any curly-hairy attractiveness, coquettish that
the shampoo-lady and the photograph-man trapped me in for
that single of the one second? Any deceptive profile of the best
side of my face--and do I, blind perhaps in the other eye? Not
also a fair, honest portrait of every-day of my father is and
the composite characteristics of mother--but a portrait of _myself_!
Hurray for You! A portrait, then not of my physiognomy, but
of my _personality_. Very well, gentleman. Here is the
portrait--true to the life--in this great, awkward,
package conglomerated of articles that
you represent--perhaps--not also so a lot the prosaic one, literal
things that I am, as the very most illuminating and
meaningful things that be_ would like it. It is that that us
'likes to be' that it really says the most greater part around us, it is not
it, Carl Stanton? The brown one that I have to noisily bring discourses
enough, for example, on the color of my complexion but
the forbidden carnation that I ask more persistently infinitely whispers
more intimately respect to the color of my spirit. And as to
my Face--_am I really forced to have a face_? Oh, anybody--or!
'Songs without words it is certainly the only songs in the world
that is suddenly packaged to the last one note that it melodiously sings with
boundless meanings. Then in these 'the letters without faces me
rather serenely throw on the mercy of Your
imagination.
"What is it that you say? What do I have _got_ to have a face simply?
Oh, curse!--well, Your face worse. You implore on then for me, here
and now, some kind of characteristics any that please Your
desire. Only, Man of Mine, only memoirs this in Your