I Burn Paris
surreptitiously slid a bowl of rice and a big piece of dumpling into his cell: “There you go, don’t cry. Gather your strength.” He ate, greedily licking his fingers. He squatted in the corner, deep in thought. They’d beat him again. Tomorrow for sure. It figured – the white men were his enemies. And the potbellied one? You could see from his clothes that he was rich. And he was on their side. He barked at their command. So he was an enemy, too. Chow-Lin was right. It wasn’t only the white men.
someplace East, from the arable fields of the Ukraine, from the puddle-filled towns of Galicia, and ran aground here, silting up for a few decades to form a modern ghetto devoid of traditions, durable, insoluble, isolated. In the great multilingual city, hundreds of languages and dozens of nations and races grind each other to dust, fertilizing the frozen French soil with a new, fecund manure. Poured into the solution of the city, the Polish and Russian Jews, with their particular talent for
know it – this lover turned out to be a marvelous creature indeed, a sensitive and ravishing instrument that played inexhaustible scales of delight. David Lingslay now spent entire days, evenings, and nights with her, discovering within himself – at forty years of age – an extremely affectionate amour. Like a sybarite yearning to whet his passion for tomorrow’s meal by refraining from today’s, David Lingslay did not move in with her. He kept his suite at the Grand Hotel so as to return from a
morning. Please don’t be angry ...” said Comrade Laval, crumpling his cap in his hands. “Not at all, not at all!” said Comrade Lecoq, bustling about. “Come in. I’m at your service. If it’s important, the time of day doesn’t matter. Sleep can wait. Have a seat. Cigarette? I’m all ears. What’s the matter?” “I’ve come, Comrade Commandant, with regard to the commune’s provisions. I can’t allow the last proletariat to be sent to charge the Anglo-American barricades. We won’t find any food there
whole brood, only a twenty-year-old boy named Archibald was left, earning a living in London. Hurrying to send him a first-class liner ticket and a few thousand dollars to wrap up his affairs in Europe, Lingslay wrote a laconic letter suggesting that his nephew move to New York to study. What showed up was a tall, bony man with good hazel eyes, his face sunken and ravaged, cracked and cut with premature wrinkles, wisps of chestnut hair falling over his high, wise forehead. He moved into the