/lit/ - Literature

Kreisler was shaving himself, one eye fixed upon Paris. It beat upon this wall of Paris drearily... The late spring sunshine flooded, like a burst tepid star, the pink boulevard: beneath, the black-suited burgesses of Paris crawled like wounded insects hither and thither... Imagining yourself in some primitive necropolis, the portraits of the deceased covering the holes in which they had respectively been thrust, you would, pursuing your fancy, have seen in Kreisler a devout recluse who had taken up his quarters in this rock-hewn death-house.