Street of Crocodiles

24 July 2009 | by | In process

“   Our language does not possess epithets fine enough to weigh, as it were, the degrees of its reality, to define its pliability. Let me say it bluntly: the tragedy of this district is that nothing here ever reaches completion; nothing transcends its definitivum — all movements, once begun, hang in the air; all gestures are prematurely exhausted and cannot proceed beyond a certain deadlock. We can now appreciate its great luxuriance and prodigality — in the intentions, projects and anticipations that characterise this district. It is all nothing more than the fermentation of desires, prematurely luxuriant and, therefore, impotent and empty. Every merest whim germinates in its atmosphere of inordinate facility; a fleeting tension swells and grows into an empty, puffed out excrescence, a shot up, grey and light vegetation of downy weeds — colourless shaggy poppy heads composed of a weightless tissue of illusion and hashish. A languid and profligate aura of sin rises over the whole district, and the houses, shops and people not uncommonly seem to be a shudder on its fervid body, the gooseflesh of its feverish reveries. Nowhere so much as here do we feel so threatened by possibilities, so shocked by the propinquity of fulfilment, scared pale and stiff by the pleasurable terror of realisation. But it ends there.”
Street of Crocodiles by Bruno Schultz

© Walczak & Solomon


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