Spring 1954 • Vol. XVI No. 2 FictionApril 1, 1954 |

The Glass Trumpet

Marion, shining new from an old university, sufficient and pretty, believed in art. She believed in it all round the clock; in its existence, effects, and its causes, in a roundabout way, and direct from the heart of the new, discovering need she had to believe in it. And them, too; in the artists. How, how, was her question; how did they work? What happened, was there a happening, between the apple Cézanne saw and the Cézanne apple she saw? Where was the organisation done, what was imposed, what abstracted, through what filter? Of course she knew the answers; they had taught her all that and allowed her to put some letters after her name to show she knew it. But she wanted to see it happen, to look in, to be there, to be in at the birth. It must be this, it must be that:— all that she knew, and now longed to know so much more that she could say: it is this, it is that. So that when she met Rowley she was terribly excited. She thought that if she watched his face closely she

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