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59 Salome (after Botticelli) I use the same knife to amputate my little toe, and to cut the olive twig poised like a paint brush; then turn to the sigh reeking of locust, wild honey, dried fig, which escapes from your slackening mouth, dear John. Notice how like a pencil I hold the dudgeon. Look carefully at the smear of our blood mingled with sap in a fold of my lace-edged smock. There’s a wind blowing against us; our water bottles are dry, and there’s some kind of conflict going on in the background. Many souls will fly. My slave, bearing your head on hers, looks vexed, but I’m resigned: your cousin will be next. ...

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