Angizia
Miscellaneous
Chapter III. Half truth, stool shine and death lights
"It was the white of the swans, so pure and fearful of death, you could see it like
angels shimmering on the arch of peace, not like flags that let themselves be twisted by the wind, Swans are these fearful children, they do not wave
as they sing, Swans are these weeping despots who want to mourn
they please"
From a letter from Lavater, shortly before his death 3.
/>Elevator in stucco. Changed stage setting, scene at the pond. 2.
Stools adorn the wooden stage So stoic my apple customers, this charm
I found beautifully written down in drunken letters, creature so pale to the
We boys lined up in cloud tents in poems, as if instead of the sun dancing'
in the lake two feathered children, creeping forward, with their deep eyes,
weary and openly crying, as a friend's word called this pond to us', and pale
many a tear that dries the backs of our cheeks , what a shock in our dress
was born, we considered the shimmer of the tumult on these stools of that room
carried off Constance and Lavater with long, red beards, Lavater as
"Painter"
[Lavier :]
"What a sketch I have drawn, this sweet look in the portrait of the
Fewassers dry, a hopping lantern, what a count's family,
soft, delicate sweeping 'water dragon' as crackling 'handsome missile dives in
/>Giving way in the pond's blue smoke? Constance, my dear cousin, what tears were shed so that instead of the amphibians and their shaggy companions, a
swan bird appears before our eyes, as a silent driver it throws little flames into
/>These are moistened by tumbling wicks, like those of the moon alone, adorning my sketch!" Zealous hand,
many a tear was certainly shed for you, but because of the colors of your leaf,
this light swallowed up the feathered child's pale majesty, so she made up
merely with wax and shoes,' she scolded her you will hit the face,
think of the waving child, the bleeding flesh, so remain the
mirror! Your bird right away! So show your little picture, the swan
body as white as many flakes of snow, this grave's whereabouts
turns into sharp thorns to say farewell to those birds, and always a
Scarlet light damming on the naked wicks, The fountain'
those tear-stained dress, he did his poor little sleep, quite like a
foreign time! Oh dear, the dull surface of this tumult, it rocks like a ship

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