He kissed her/ Scott Fitzgerald
Gatsby saw that the blocks of the sidewalks really formed a ladder and mounted to a secret place above the trees—he could climb to it, if he climbed alone, and once there he could suck on the pap of life, gulp down the incomparable milk of wonder. His heart beat faster as Daisy’s white face came up to his own. He knew that when he kissed this girl, and forever wed his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like the mind of God. So he waited, listening for a moment longer to the tuning-fork that had been struck upon a star. Then he kissed her. At his lips’ touch she blossomed for him like a flower and the incarnation was complete.
A permanent miracle/ Jean Genève Schubert
As usual, the gendarmes are overwhelmed. It’s a rat race up to the roundabout. The avenue is now clear, but not for long. We must zigzag, avoid holes, spare stray dogs, vendors on the side of the streets, distracted drivers, and vehicle wrecks. Gaily painted tap-taps enhance with colors the route. The traffic jam worsened at the entrance to Delmas, a popular district. Bottleneck. Gridlock. Dog bed. No traffic lights. The few remaining ones hang like bats from pylons. A cop moves like a disjointed semaphore. Drivers ignore him. Run for your life. The law of the strongest or most reckless prevails as the vital principle—a permanent miracle.
