the nineteenth century: the obsession they had then with harems. Dozens of paintings of harems, fat women lolling on divans, turbans on their heads or velvet caps, being fanned with peacock tails, a eunuch in the background standing guard. Studies of sedentary flesh, painted by men who’d never been there. These pictures were supposed to be erotic, and I thought they were, at the time; but I see now what they were really about. They were paintings about suspended animation; about waiting, about objects not in use. They were paintings about boredom. But maybe boredom is erotic, when women do it, for men. I
И с началом сезона Дэзи снова втянуло в круговорот этой сумеречной вселенной. Снова она за день успевала побывать на полдюжине свиданий с полудюжиной молодых людей; снова замертво валилась в постель на рассвете, бросив на пол измятое бальное платье вместе с умирающими орхидеями. Но все время настойчивый внутренний голос требовал от нее решения. Она хотела устроить свою жизнь сейчас, сегодня; и чтобы решение пришло, нужна была какая-то сила – любви, денег, неоспоримой выгоды, – которую не понадобилось бы искать далеко.
This is where Mother and I differ greatly. Her advice in the face of melancholy is: 'Think about all the suffering in the world and be thankful you're not part of it.' My advice is: 'Go outside and try to recapture the happiness within yourself; think of all the beauty in yourself and in everything around you and be happy.