Notes for landscape-tones...Long sequences of tempera. Light filtered through the essence of lemons. An air full of brick-dust—sweet smelling brick dust and the odour of hot pavements slaked with water. Light damp clouds, earth-bound, yet seldom bringing rain. Upon this squirt dust-red, dust-green, chalk mauve and watered crimson lake. In summer the sea damp lightly varnished the air. Everything lay under a coat of gum.
In the great quietness of these winter evenings there is one clock: the sea. Its dim momentum in the mind is the fugue upon which this writing is made. Empty cadences of seawater, licking its own wounds, sulking along the mouths of the delta, boiling upon those deserted beaches—empty, forever empty under the gulls: white scribble on the grey, munched by clouds. If there are ever sails here they die before the land shadows them. Wreckage washed up on the pediments of islands, the last crust, eroded by the weather, stuck in the blue maw of water...gone!
[15.] Authors Anais Nin and Lawrence Durrell, circa 1940. Nin, Durrell and Henry Miller called themselves the three musketeers. A riveting account of the friendships between this trio of authors is found on Anais Nin blog. Click here.