Sunday, December 23, 2012


Andy Warhol, Fiesta Pig, 1979  

    Mr Rock moved across to shut the gate on his pig.  What with the torch, the case he carried, and that latch, he fumbled a good deal.  Then he listened for, and heard, Daisy's heavy breath.  He leant inside, felt about. The moment he touched her, she squealed terribly.  But he got hold of the slipper and jerked it from her neck.  She yelled as though about to be stuck and then, as soon as he moved off, she stopped.  He hurled the shoe away.  Once it was no longer in moonlight it disappeared, the thing might have flown.  He did not, of course, hear it fall.  Upon which he realised he still had Elizabeth's shoes in the despatch case.  She could scarcely dance in rubber boots.  He thought to call her back, but decided against.  Gum boots would not help Birt, he considered, not realising they would force her to take the young man outside.

    He entered the cottage, switched on a light, began the routine he carried through each bedtime, set things to right.  When he was just about done he heard a cat discreetly yowl.  He went to the door.  It was Alice.  After getting her in with some milk, he climbed the stairs to bed.

    On the whole he was well satisfied with his day.  He fell asleep  almost at once in the yellow woolen nightshirt.


Andy Warhol, Cat, 1976

Henry Green, Concluding.  London, The Hogarth Press, 1948. 

No comments:

Post a Comment