You fool, they said.
As original as the moustache on Mephistopheles, as daring as the Falls behind which he disappeared, as existential as a piece of chocolate cake, as sad as a torn teddy bear...
You can be a piece of sadness, stupid, but you can't be sadness. I want to be sadness, I say, I want to be everything that I cannot be, and is that not being sadness? What qualifies, in that case... a further dazzling (bewildering) originality? How can I solve this problem, oh how can I, oh how.
Then she came, in a whirl of whiteness, chiffon and silks and satins rustled, but she was wearing cotton, the basest cotton; torn and limp and futile. The essence, of course, being the essence, as it were... and what is the essence?Is the cotton the essence, or is it her, or is it both? Is the presence the essence or the absence?
There being no answer, she shuddered, drooped, cried, and made a scene.
She was a fool, they said.