8. What Are They After, Our Souls
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8 What are they after, our souls, traveling on the decks of decayed ships crowded in with sallow women and crying babies unable to forget themselves either with the flying fish or with the stars that the masts point out at their tips grated by gramophone records committed to non-existent pilgrimages unwillingly, murmuring broken thoughts from foreign languages? What are they after, our souls, traveling on rotten brine-soaked timbers from harbor to harbor? Shifting broken stones, breathing in the pine's coolness with greater difficulty each day swimming in the waters of this sea and of that sea without the sense of touch without men in a country that is no longer ours nor yours. 12 We knew that the islands were beautiful somewhere round about here where we're groping— a little nearer or a little farther, the slightest distance. η ...


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