Sublime

“Get this straight, Geoffrey, I’m thinking of Yvonne, not you.” “Get it a little straighter still. You’re thinking of yourself.

The love is the creek bed and the pain fills it. Fills it every day with tears.

The dimmest of my pollutive dreams was a thousand times more dazzling than all the adultery the most virile writer of genius or the most talented impotent might imagine.

The ship was so clean and so white it looked boiled.

“Been away quite a time, hasn’t she?” the other asked mildly, leaning forward so that he could see, more clearly, the Consul’s bungalow. “Your brother still here?” “Brother? Oh, you mean Hugh … No, he’s in Mexico City.” “I think you’ll find he’s got back.” The Consul now glanced up at the house himself. “Hicket,” he said briefly, apprehensively. “I

in obscure disgrace;

flammulated

‘over the water’

The rain begins, not with torrid, dehumidifying power, but a slow, intermittent shower, dysuric.