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182 Mediterranean Update Whatever let it be a pleasure made it end like anything that dies before we think it should. The aisles of lavender, the sea “between the land,” the houses cut from rock where Yeats lived last, the yachts moored hull to hull at anchor, and the wind from Africa that’s known as the libeccio all blurred like painter’s pigments fractioned into bits. “Everything’s the same but us,” I said, “because we’ve come back once too often.” French television flashed a raid by F-l6s in Gaza followed by a sacrificial bombing in Jerusalem. The detonated bodies sprawled alike. “Same intent,” I said, “but different weapons.” The prospect made me kick aside a core of cardboard from a toilet paper roll discarded near a dumpster. Later we indulged ourselves in sun and surf—our way of fiddling while tomorrow burned. 183 Romeos roamed the beaches, sporting their scrotal pouches. Women wore nil but thongs and pubic patches. So many thronged the waves I thought of mullets or ale-wives surging in frenzy. . . . Three hours east by air, oppressor and oppressed were being filmed in battles we would watch while dining later in Antibes or sipping cappuccino by the pool. ...

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