Tannhauser 02: The Twelve Children Of Paris - Plot & Excerpts
She had thought of him while she lay on her pillow in the hope that she would, and she did. In certain wild flights, which even in sleep she strove to prolong, the dreams were erotic. Other flights were bloody, the two of them in league, and she loved those, too. In yet others, Tannhauser was wounded and alone, beset by monstrous beasts whose strength, though only thanks to number, exceeded his. When she awoke, she remembered that his wife was dead. She thought: I’m almost old enough to marry. She kept her eyes closed and pictured the battle he had fought on the stairs outside her bedroom. When her father had experimented with his drawings and carvings for a new typeface, for he thought most barely readable, he would give himself entirely to the moment. Everything he was. Tannhauser did the same – only more quickly, and intensely – when he killed. There was nothing in him but the killing. Thoughts, yes, but all those, too, devoted to that purpose. No fears, no doubts, no pity. Just movement – decision – flowing wherever it needed to, the way a swallow used its wings.
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