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My dark and elder green, surrounded by the brown murmurs of the forest floor, deep masculine shadows, shafts of sunlight through the trees, warmth of subdued but urgent spices. After a while of travelling through a tunnel in the earth - gloomy, musty, warm, profound - I somehow emerged into a chamber of great distinction where a group of gentlemen sat around a large table, discussing matters of great moment. "Messieurs, brethren, cameradoes," I announced, "I assume we are gathered here to discuss the mysteries of the much maligned Quorum. How sad that persons of otherwise good taste and discernment should relegate this fragrant poem, layered with strangeness and with depth, to a universe of sweaty groins and over-muscled machismo! Are they mad or merely prone to overspraying? Ancient of days! Essence of natural nobility! Mystical odour of a forgotten race of Peasant-Kings! Warm and kindly, rough with the earth but purely royal, a tinge of sadness, and such a well of enigmatic depth!" (de Charlus).
12 September, 2011