How to Draw Manga Volume 36 Animals Pets Wild Animals and Birds 36th Edition Hikaru Hayashi pdf download
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HowtoDrawMangaVolume36AnimalsPetsWild AnimalsandBirds36thEditionHikaruHayashiDigital InstantDownload
Author(s):HikaruHayashi
ISBN(s):9784766115338,4766115333
Edition:36
FileDetails:PDF,97.32MB
Year:2005
Language:english
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self-reassuring cigars, and could out-ponder the average fidgety American by hours.
He had travelled, he had lived as the “Romans lived,” and had sent many a hot-eyed girl back across the fields with something to forget or remember, according to her nature.
This man had been Nelly Grissard’s lover at the most depraved period of Nelly’s life. At that moment when she was colouring her drinking water green, and living on ox liver and “testina en broda,” Nicholas Golwein had turned her collar back, and kissed her on that intimate portion of the throat where it has just left daylight, yet has barely passed into the shadow of the breast.
To be sure, Nelly Grissard had been depraved at an exceedingly early age, if depravity is understood to be the ability to enjoy what others shudder at, and to shudder at what others enjoy.
Nelly Grissard dreamed “absolutely honestly”—stress on the absolutely—when it was all the fashion to dream obscurely,—she could sustain the conversation just long enough not to be annoyingly brilliant, she loved to talk of ancient crimes, drawing her stomach in, and bending her fingers slightly, just slightly, but also just enough to make the guests shiver a little and think how she really should have been born in the time of the Cenci. And during the craze for Gauguin she was careful to mention that she had passed over the same South Sea roads, but where Gauguin had walked, she had been carried by two astonished donkeys.
She had been “kind” to Nicholas Golwein just long enough to make the racial melancholy blossom into a rank tall weed. He loved beautiful things, and she possessed them. He had become used to her, had “forgiven” her much (for those who had to forgive at all had to forgive Nelly in a large way), and the fact that she was too fluid to need one person’s forgiveness long, drove him into slow bitterness and despair.
The fact that “her days were on her,” and that she did not feel the usual woman’s fear of age and dissolution, nay, that she even saw new measures to take, possessing a fertility that can only come of a decaying mind, drove him almost into insanity.
When the Autumn came, and the leaves were falling from the trees, as nature grew hot and the last flames of the season licked high
among the branches, Nicholas Golwein’s cheeks burned with a dull red, and he turned his eyes down.
Life did not exist for Nicholas Golwein as a matter of day and after day—it was flung at him from time to time as a cloak is flung a flunkey, and this made him proud, morose, silent.
Was it not somehow indecent that, after his forgiveness and understanding, there should be the understanding and forgiveness of another?
There was undoubtedly something cruel about Nelly Grissard’s love; she took at random, and Nicholas Golwein had been the most random, perhaps, of all. The others, before him, had all been of her own class—the first had even married her, and when she finally drove him to the knife’s edge, had left her a fair fortune. Nicholas Golwein had always earned his own living, he was an artist and lived as artists live. Then Nelly came—and went—and after him she had again taken one of her own kind, a wealthy Norwegian—Nord, a friend of Nicholas’.
Sometimes now Nicholas Golwein would go off into the country, trying to forget, trying to curb the tastes that Nelly’s love had nourished. He nosed out small towns, but he always came hurriedly back, smelling of sassafras, the dull penetrating odour of grass, contact with trees, half-tamed animals.
The country made him think of Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony —he would start running—running seemed a way to complete all that was sketchy and incomplete about nature, music, love.
“Would I recognize God if I saw him?” The joy of thinking such thoughts was not every man’s, and this cheered him.
Sometimes he would go to see Nord; he was not above visiting Nelly’s lover—in fact there was that between them.
He had fancied death lately. There was a tremendously sterile quality about Nicholas Golwein’s fancies; they were the fancies of a race, and not of a man.
He discussed death with Nord—before the end there is something pleasant in a talk of a means to an end, and Nord had the coldness that makes death strong.
“I can hate,” he would say, watching Nord out of the corner of his eye; “Nelly can’t, she’s too provincial——”
“Yes, there’s truth in that. Nelly’s good to herself—what more is there?”
“There’s understanding.” He meant compassion, and his eyes filled. “Does she ever speak of me?”
It was beginning to rain. Large drops struck softly against the café window and thinning out ran down upon the sill.
“Oh, yes.”
“And she says?”
“Why are you never satisfied with what you have, Nicholas?”
Nicholas Golwein turned red. “One dish of cream and the cat should lick his paws into eternity. I suppose one would learn how she felt, if she feels at all, if one died.”
“Why, yes, I suppose so.”
They looked at each other, Nicholas Golwein in a furtive manner, moving his lips around his cigar—Nord absently, smiling a little. “Yes, that would amuse her.”
“What?” Nicholas Golwein paused in his smoking and let his hot eyes rest on Nord.
“Well, if you can manage it——”
Nicholas Golwein made a gesture, shaking his cuff-links like a harness—“I can manage it,” he said, wondering what Nord was thinking.
“Of course it’s rather disgusting,” Nord said.
“I know, I know I should go out like a gentleman, but there’s more in me than the gentleman, there’s something that understands meanness; a Jew can only love and be intimate with the thing that’s a little abnormal, and so I love what’s low and treacherous and cunning, because there’s nobility and uneasiness in it for me—well,” he flung out his arms—“if you were to say to Nell, ‘He hung himself in the small hours, with a sheet’—what then? Everything she had ever said to me, been to me, will change for her—she won’t be able to read those French journals in the same way, she won’t be able to swallow water as she has always swallowed it. I know, you’ll say there’s nature and do you know what I’ll answer: that I have a contempt for animals—just because they do not have to include Nelly Grissard’s whims in their means to a living conduct—well, listen, I’ve
made up my mind to something”—he became calm all of a sudden and looked Nord directly in the face.
“Well?”
“I shall follow you up the stairs, stand behind the door, and you shall say just these words, ‘Nicholas has hung himself.’”
“And then what?”
“That’s all, that’s quite sufficient—then I shall know everything.”
Nord stood up, letting Nicholas open the café door for him.
“You don’t object?” Nicholas Golwein murmured.
Nord laughed a cold, insulting laugh. “It will amuse her——”
Nicholas nodded, “Yes, we’ve held the coarse essentials between our teeth like good dogs—” he said, trying to be insulting in turn, but it only sounded pathetic, sentimental.
Without a word passing between them, on the following day, they went up the stairs of Nelly Grissard’s house, together. The door into the inner room was ajar, and Nicholas crept in behind this, seating himself on a little table.
He heard Nord greet Nelly, and Nelly’s voice answering—“Ah, dear”—he listened no further for a moment, his mind went back, and he seemed to himself to be peaceful and happy all at once. “A binding up of old sores,” he thought, a oneness with what was good and simple—with everything that evil had not contorted.
“Religion,” he thought to himself, resting his chin on his hands— thinking what religion had meant to all men at all times, but to no man in his most need. “Religion is a design for pain—that’s it.” Then he thought, that, like all art, must be fundamentally against God— God had made his own plans—well, of that later——
Nelly had just said something—there had been a death-like silence, then her cry, but he had forgotten to listen to what it was that had passed. He changed hands on his cane. “There is someone in heaven,” he found his mind saying. The rising of this feeling was pleasant—it seemed to come from the very centre of his being. “There’s someone in heaven—who?” he asked himself, “who?” But there was no possible answer that was not blasphemy.
