Or myself with the thing destined to be some kind of incurable “love-object,” or eternal troubadour, jongleur, interested only in married women—why?—incapable finally of love altogether … Bloody little man. Who, anyhow, no longer wrote songs. While the guitar as an end in itself at last seemed simply futile; no longer even fun—certainly a childish thing to be put away—) “Is that right?” “Is what right?” “Do you see that poor exiled maple tree outside there,” asked the Consul, “propped up with those crutches of cedar?” “No—luckily for you—” “One of these days, when the wind blows from the other
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