me and M. Lebris talked a blue streak
The fact of the matter is, (again that cliché, but we need signposts), me and M. Lebris talked a blue streak about Proust, de Montherlant, Chateaubriand, (where I told Lebris he had the same nose), Saskatchewan, Mozart, and then we talked of the futility of Surrealism, the loveliness of loveliness, Mozart’s flute, even Vivaldi’s, by God I even mentioned Sebastian del Piombo and how he was even more languid than Raffaelc, and he countered with the pleasures of a good comforter (at which point I reminded him paranoiacally of the Paraclete), and he went on, expounding ’pon the glories of Armorica (ancient name of Brittany, ar, “on,” mor, “the sea,”) and I then told him with a dash of thought :– or hyphen:– “C’est triste de trouver que vous êtes malade, Monsieur Lebris” (pronounced Lebriss), “It’s sad to find that you’re ill, Monsieur Lebris, but joyous to find that you’re encircled by your lovers, truly, in whose company I should always want to be found.”
