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355 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1960
…if it had rained spears, all huddled now in the stands with the sculptured gingerbread floating in the sky, with the whipped cream clouds, motionless, like meringues, that is swollen, puffed up on top and flattened underneath as if they had been set on an invisible sheet of glass, neatly aligned in successive rows which perspective brought closer together in the distance, to form, far away, towards the misty horizon, above the treetops and delicate factory chimneys, a suspended, motionless ceiling, until when you looked more carefully you realised the whole drifting archipelago was imperceptibly sliding�
I drank drinking all of her taking all of her into me like those oranges that despite grown-ups telling me that it was dirty, that it was impolite, noisy I like to make a hole in and squeeze, pressing, drinking her belly the globes of her breast slipping under my fingers like water a pink crystalline drop trembling on the bent blade of grass under that light rustling breeze that precedes the sunrise reflecting containing in its transparence the sky tinged pink by the dawn.