By Anthony Powell
In Agents and Patients, we go back to London with the newly prosperous, memorably named Blore-Smith: an blameless, respectable sufficient chap . . . and a drip. susceptible to the machinations of these with much less funds and extra lust, Blore-Smith falls sufferer to 2 con artists whose ploys hold him via to the paintings galleries and whorehouses of Paris, Berlin, and beyond.
Written from a vantage aspect either excessive and unavoidably slender, Powell’s early novels however deal within the common issues that will turn into a considerable a part of his oeuvre: delight, greed, and what makes humans behave as they do. packed with eccentric characters and piercing insights, Powell’s paintings is achingly hilarious, human, and true.
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Cash can burn in stolen cars. You are all I have on credit. 47 mARIA oF tHE CULVERTS Maria of the sky-blue veil, laughing, with a necktie of corpses. O cloudy vinyl eyebrows. O seashell-studded ankle. 0 shoelace caught in a throat of a sparrow, jiggling. 1 know why the midnite divas, Maria, the bitches, smell us out. We are whores to ourselves only. They'd prefer a retractable cunt or cock someone clean who will live without mirrors or for moments in only mirrored ballrooms. Who'll throw us out, or say they will & then don't & never call, We are like culverts down by the ocean.
Warm oceans, pitiless. Vomit & territory & more visions not guiding nor enforced. I want to lie all over your cracked magic now like a beach tapestry. A salty wind which was only the howling gnosis of the toilet god. Glass ceilings laughed to pieces on the designer pills of dilettantes. I grew skid marks on my innocence. Swallowed crushes. Walked away from holiness. This mole I rub up the neck of loved ones now like my most precious possession. You went down. I turned twenty-five. No amount of adult video stores had prepared me.
Our wedding photos would burn like the sweet life for the mothers of the poor. There are no more dreams outside these dreams. We are born with bright blood on our face licking yolk off of one another's swollen tongues. No loop of perfect music to generate always & without decay. Tomorrow maybe lambs of war descend to declare everyone president in the crooked towers of our labour. But we are not who we say we are. We are damaged. Some days, dragon days. This world, too soon. Like catwalks, we want something to fall down on us lonely, dirty, petty, ebullient, funny.