lurches through space long enough. Yes, let me invent a myth--and not tell
it, but rather think of the origin of the Milky Way and so convince
myself of the futility of modern inventions.

Juno's favourite flowers were, it is written, the dittany (a milk-like
plant), the flaunting poppy, and the fragrant lily. Once, as she slept,
Jupiter placed the wonderfully begotten Hercules to her alien, repugnant
breasts. Some of the milk dripped and as it fell was dissipated in the
heavens--and there is the Milky Way. Other drops reached the earth and,
falling on the lily, which hitherto had been purple, purified it to
whiteness. In similar guise might the legend of the Southern Cross be
framed--but who has the audacity to reveal it! And have not the
unimaginative blacks anticipated the stellar romance?

As I gaze into those serene and capricious spaces separating the friendly
stars I am relieved of all consciousness of sense of duration. Time was
not made for such ecstasies, which are of eternity. The warm sand nurses
my body. My other self seeks consolation among the planets.


"Thin huge stage presenteth naught but show
Whereon the stars in secret influence comment."


A grey mist masks the winding of a mainland river. Isolated blotches
indicate lonely lagoons and swamps where slim palms and lank tea-trees
stand in crowded, whispering ranks knee-deep in dull brown water. The
mist spreads. Black hilltops are as islands jutting out from a grey
supermundane sea.