The place grimaced at
me.
With the flowers it was similar, though far more difficult to detect in
detail for description. I saw the smaller vegetable growth as impish,
half-malicious. Even the terraces sloped ill, as though their ends had
sagged since they had been so lavishly constructed; their varying angles
gave a queerly bewildering aspect to their sequence that was unpleasant
to the eye. One might wander among their deceptive lengths and get lost
--lost among open terraces!--with the house quite close at hand. Unhomely
seemed the entire garden, unable to give repose, restlessness in it
everywhere, almost strife, and discord certainly.
Moreover, the garden grew into the house, the house into the garden, and
in both was this idea of resistance to the natural--the spirit that says
No to joy. All over it I was aware of the effort to achieve another end,
the struggle to burst forth and escape into free, spontaneous expression
that should be happy and natural, yet the effort forever frustrated by
the weight of this dark shadow that rendered it abortive. Life crawled
aside into a channel that was a cul-de-sac, then turned horribly upon
itself. Instead of blossom and fruit, there were weeds.
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