08 September

8 September 1920

Travelling to Menton, France

Chapter I
It was neither dark nor light in the cabin. The ring of the porthole shone very bright and cold like the eye of some huge dead bird. In that eye you saw an immense stretch of grey waving water, a vague sky above, and between, a few huge live birds flying so aimless and uncertain they didn't look like birds at all, but like bits of wave, torn off, or just shadows ...
Shadows, too, birds of shadow, flew across the cabin ceiling - across its whiteness, iron girders, splashes of rust, big nails coated with paint, paint blisters. There was a strange gleam on the walls. A tiny day seemed to be breaking all on its own in the mirror above the washstand and another tide rose and fell in the thick bottle.
It was cold. The damp air smelled of paint and rubber and sea water. The only thing of life in the silent cabin was the little doll-like curtain hanging at the porthole. In the quiet it lifted - lifted - fluttered - then blew out straight and stiff, tugging at the rings. And then gently, gently it fell again. Again it folded, drooped, only to begin puff puffing out once more, filling, swelling, stretching out stiff with only a quiver, dancing a secret dance as it were while those birds of silence chased over the ceiling. The minute day deepened very slowly in the mirror, and in the thick bottle rose & ebbed the heavy tide.
The odious little creature who had been sitting on the edge of the lower berth drew on a pair of dirty white kid gloves, tucked her tail under her arm, gave a loud high cackle and vanished. [KM Notebooks, undated]