it is the home of a duchess, they had it for the summer; they seldom washed out wine glasses, they were pouring all the time. On a long wooden table, in a cream tureen, with chipped edges, cherries, oranges, peaches—it was hot, they bathed frequently, they slept in the day, woke and foraged at night, like foxes. Actually, there was no particular routine. They slept as they liked, sometimes in the late morning, on other days they woke when swallows were emptying from the sky. It seemed, at first, like chaos, or a kind of disorder, but slowly they grew to appreciate that a failure of routine was a prerequisite for authenticity. Slowly, they were turning into a kind of game, animals.
They did not reject or disdain the world…
