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18 the minnesota review Jonathan Holden "The Swing," by Honoré'Fragonard Her pink chubby fingers trusting the rope, one slipper flying off one toy foot, a toy herself, a girl is sailing through the silly leaves. She hasn't heard of the guillotine, she is plummeting, rising into and out of the pitfalls of pleasure, her petticoats like a parasol blooming over her Baron de Saint Julien fainting in the bushes with desire as she leaves him again to go high into a leafy canopy that seems to be connected to nothing — How can it hang on any longer? But she isn't thinking, she's breathless, in a flutter, a swoon as when, shopping, the mind stops — We think, This can be mine — and we give ourselves away just as easily as this ignorant girl so smug on her plump velvet cushion starting back down through the silly leaves while the rope groans and holds, thoroughly owned by, owning the rush of the foliage, the glint in the Baron's eye. ...


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