Capitolo 54
songs for Your cause, entirely full of You, You, You and so entirely full of
life and the grace and electrifying music. That for which it is my life good, to me
or to the world? "The life of a cleric is such profit that,
old gurgled of agreeable conventionality out this morning; what is the
good of mine, as it is now standing, to his/her owner or to someone other,
Should you/he/she like to know, does omit the dear old Progenitor? A mere piece
of blue and broken china, a fantastic air from a comic work, disguising himself/herself/itself
in black and white as a piece of sacred music! That that good it is me to
whoever on earth but the Progenitor (God blesses him/it!), and when he is
gone, the dear old individual, what is able me on the earth I/you/they have gone away to live
for. A selfish empty space that is everybody. But with You, ah, as different!
With her to live for and to tenderly take care of, with an object to put before
itself as value the consideration of one, thing I would not finally do?
Does her happy--later everything that is the great thing. Does her affectionate
of my music that music that it is floating and he/she now escapes me, but it is able
hardens in results as if from magic with her to help one to spell him/it
out--I know that it is able, finally, I know that it is able. Ah, well perhaps
of the day I can be able; the dream will perhaps include some day
it; you cultivate then, jobs, jobs, job; allow me to try to work verse
him making possible, a living or a maintenance, any matter that. But
not a breath of him to You in the meantime, Miss Butterfly; you flutter around
freely and cheerfully while you are able; I would not spoil Your untrammelled
flight for worlds trying to fetter too soon it around the fixed one
centre of my his/her own destinies of poor doubtful diaconal.'
To the same moment while Arthur Berkeley was conversing so garrulously
with his wants heated, Harry and Edie Oswald were lazily wondering aimlessly,
down the tall one, to the lodgings of Edie.
'What does he/she now think well, to Berkeley and Her Breton, Edie?'