Joaquin Sorolla y Bastida The Beach at Biarritz painting

Joaquin Sorolla y Bastida The Beach at Biarritz paintingJoaquin Sorolla y Bastida Resting Bacchante paintingJoaquin Sorolla y Bastida On the Beach Valencia painting
hail a taxi; not one was willing to stop, however, so he was obliged to plunge back into that hellish maze, that labyrinth without a solution, and continue his epic flight. At last, exhausted beyond hope, he surrendered to the fatal logic of his insanity and got out arbitrarily at what he conceded must be the last, meaningless station of his prolonged and futile journey in search of the chimera of renewal. He came out into the heartbreaking indifference of a litter-blown street by a lorry--infested roundabout. Darkness had already fallen as he walked unsteadily, using the last reserves of his optimism, into an unknown park made spectral by the ectoplasmic quality of the tungsten lamps. As he sank to his knees in the isolation of the winter night he saw the figure of a woman moving slowly towards him across the snow-shrouded grass, and surmised that it must be his nemesis, Rekha Merchant, coming to deliver her death-kiss, to drag him down into a deeper underworld than the one in which she had broken his wounded spirit. He no longer cared, and by the time

Joaquin Sorolla y Bastida The Beach at Biarritz painting

Joaquin Sorolla y Bastida The Beach at Biarritz paintingJoaquin Sorolla y Bastida Resting Bacchante paintingJoaquin Sorolla y Bastida On the Beach Valencia painting
on his back. There was nobody to be seen, but Rosa Diamond was sitting bolt upright in bed, staring at him wide-eyed, making him understand that she had given up hope of clinging on to , and needed him to help her complete the last revelation. As with the man of his dreams, he felt helpless, ignorant . . . she seemed to know, however, how to draw the images from him. Linking the two of them, navel to navel, he saw a shining cord.
Now he was by a pond in the infinity of the thistles, allowing his horse to drink, and she came riding up on her mare. Now he was embracing her, loosening her garments and her hair, and now they were making love. Now she was whispering, how can you like me, I am so much older than you, and he spoke comforting words.
Now she rose, dressed, rode away, while he remained there, his body languid and warm, failing to notice the moment when a woman's hand