The Boy Genius (It is now too late to do anything about him) stirs from sleep rubbing his eyes like a very young child; from his hiding place between two wooden crates (one containing oranges, the other tinned sardines) in a secret compartment beneath the basket. * He leans over the edge of the gondola, one bent arm at rest in curve of back, the other raised, pointing towards the vanishing point with all the misty blankness of Youth entranced by its own untouchable, unreachable distances. * Beneath his wool cap the pale hairs are caught and lifted by a zephyr emanating from the entumesced cheeks of an antediluvian Wind God (viz. Boreas) whose waftlocked and curlicued visage hangs suspended, in two-dimensional profile, above the white peak of a very triangular mountain at the extreme left of the composition.
|