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64 pages, Paperback
First published July 1, 1981
For entertainment they walked. They could not afford to do anything else. Yet he was not blind to what he saw - the watch towers, the murmuring waters, the fishful stream and the empathy of the mighty dead. He was not to assign it to paper until long after, but he saw and noted it all. He saw the space of the sky, the ever-changing evening violet, the dark, the dripping gardens with their ash pits, the soggy flower beds, the stables where a coachman combed the horses and of course the sea, the seaweed, the warm sand, the wavelets, the sharp shingle, the water mirroring the high drifting clouds. Next day she wrote to say that in his company she always felt herself to be, her spirit took leave of her body in sleep, and the loneliness which she felt in his absence faded away in his presence. Joyce, who saw and scrutinised every word, recognised at once that these were not the words of a girl who invoked charms and made beds and emptied chamber pots for a living. He guessed rightly. She had copied the letter from a book of etiquette at the time. Possibly he loved her even more for it. The waters were getting fathoms deep and in them the minnows whose movement he likened to that inside his trouser's fly - God becomes man becomes fish becomes barnacle goose becomes feather bed mountain.