CHAPTER TWELVE




HORRIFIC AND GROTESQUE COROLLARY OF THE FOREGOING ARGUMENT, PRESENTED AS AN EPICENE PARADOX.





   Last night I dreamed that I was back in the Old Absinthe House, where stand the marble fountains worn by the nonagenarian drip of the water. I was that Apsinthion, the bitter spirit, oily with divine ghostliness, and fragrant with many an holy herb, dittany, marjoran, fennel, subtile and mocking, all inspiration. But none can drink me pure, nay, say not so, my brave disciples! Ye must add syrup of style -- add not too much, my danger's in my Technik! -- and stir with drop by drop of water that fountain that never faileth. So did I dream myself intelligible -- when Betty stirred, and cried ``A little higher!'' Woman! always you bid us soar -- often you make us soar! I knew a wife that told her husband that she wished he were dead. He raised his lazy head, and asked her Why, in sooth? She said ``I want to be relict.'' And, indeed, Djuna, this is the end of the chapter. (Why support a lout like Courteney Lemon?)