By Jan Fox
Ornamental paintings portray workbook with directions, colour plates and styles.
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Extra info for Dreams of My Fragrant Garden
Like typhus. …” Then they had climbed the steps to the platform and were standing by the leave-train from which beaming soldiers were emerging, weighed down with huge packages. The platform quickly emptied, it was the usual scene. At some of the windows stood girls or women or a very silent, grim-faced father … and the resounding voice was telling people to hurry. The train was on time. ” the chaplain asked the soldier anxiously. ” asked the soldier, amazed. “Why, I might want to hurl myself under the wheels, I might want to desert … eh?
There’ll be no more of anything, no music … no flowers … no poetry … no more human joy; soon I’m going to die. This Soon is like a thunderclap. This little word is like the spark that sets off the thunderstorm, and suddenly, for the thousandth part of a second, the whole world is bright beneath this word. The smell of bodies is the same as ever. The smell of dirt and dust and boot polish. Funny, wherever there are soldiers there’s dirt. … He lit a fresh cigarette. I’ll try and picture the future, he thought.
January, he thought. But the wall isn’t there at all. A strange, unquiet hope awakens: May, he thought with a sudden leap ahead. Nothing. The wall is silent. There’s no wall anywhere. There’s nothing. This Soon … this Soon is only a frightening bogey. November, he thought. Nothing! A fierce, terrible joy springs to life. January: January of next year, a year and a half away—a year and a half of life! Nothing! No wall! He sighed with relief and went on thinking, his thoughts now racing across time as over light, very low hurdles.
Dreams of My Fragrant Garden by Jan Fox