Shall I get drunk or cut myself a piece of cake, br a pasty Syrian with a few words of English br or the Turk who says she is a princess--she dances br apparently by levitation? Or Marcelle, Parisienne br always preoccupied with her dull dead lover: br she has all the photographs and his letters br tied in a bundle and stamped Decede in mauve ink. br All this takes place in a stink of jasmin. br br But there are the streets dedicated to sleep br stenches and the sour smells, the sour cries br do not disturb their application to slumber br all day, scattered on the pavement like rags br afflicted with fatalism and hashish. The women br offering their children brown-paper breasts br dry and twisted, elongated like the skull, br Holbein's signature. But his stained white town br is something in accordance with mundane conventions- br Marcelle drops her Gallic airs and tragedy br suddenly shrieks in Arabic about the fare br with the cabman, links herself so br with the somnambulists and legless beggars: br it is all one, all as you have heard. br br But by a day's travelling you reach a new world br the vegetation is of iron br dead tanks, gun barrels split like celery br the metal brambles have no flowers or berries br and there are all sorts of manure, you can imagine br the dead themselves, their boots, clothes and possessions br clinging to the ground, a man with no head br has a packet of chocolate and a souvenir of Tripoli.