Armando Cesari

Prelude to a Lush Life

A little tragedy, he thought. That's what my life is: a little tragedy. Little, because if I were suddenly to evaporate it would be so insignificant that no one would even notice. And tragic? Yes, my life is that. He smiled with satisfaction; he thought of Blanchard. It was fini between them.

Little and tragic. He could nod with familiarity--indeed-intimacy, at miseries of all shapes and sizes. He enjoyed his masochistic introspections which were spiced with a piquant complaisance. He was aware that at times he felt a bit "superior." He claimed to loathe this trait in himself, but he actually basked in its deliciousness.

The bus pulled into Los Angeles at 4:13 P.M. He waded through the jungle of human bodies as he made his way to the Main Street exit of the bus terminal. It began to sprinkle. He loved the city this way: multitudes tramping on wet pavements whole sections deserted for a space; dulcet lulls, he called these spaces. Then, as if cued, angry feet would rush onward, filling up the emptiness, stepping on other feet, pushing growling stomachs hurrying home, anxious to devour succulent meats, to be washed down with piss-colored fluids.

He loved semi-arty-pornographic little book stores that sold all manner of interesting literature from sexy paperbacks and pulps to Andre Gide in French. He had spent many pleasant moments browsing through racks feeling terribly left-bankish. But there was not time for this today.

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