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DAYS OF APRIL '43 Trumpets, trams, swearing, the screeching of brakes chloroform his mind in the same way as one counts so long as one holds out before being lost in numbness, at the surgeon's mercy. In the streets he walks carefully, not to slip on melon-rinds thrown by indifferent Arabs or refugee politicians and the clique, they watch him: will he step on it?—Will he not? As one plucks a daisy; he walks on swinging an enormous bunch of useless keys; the dry sky recalls faded advertisements of the Greek Coastal Steamship Company, windows locked on faces one loves or a little clear water at the root of a plane-tree. He walks on, going to his work, while a thousand starving dogs tear his pants to shreds and strip him naked. He walks on, staggering, pointed at, and a dense wind whirls around him rubbish, dung, stench, and slander. Cairo-Saria Emad-el-Din, 24 June '43 iS6 ...


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