Tropic of Cancer

I observed as closely as I could in the dim light, and it was both bewildering and stupefying. I thought to myself that it was wonderful that the whole civilized world and the whole world were like this. Rain or shine, hail, sleet, snow, thunder, lightning, war, famine, pestilence, are not affected at all. It's always the same annoying temperature, the same nonsense, the same strappy shoes on the ankles and God's little Ann's singing tenor and soprano. Near the exit was a small box with a hole cut in it to carry on the work of the Kingdom of Heaven, so that God's grace would rain down on emperors, on countries, on warships, powerful explosives, tanks and airplanes, so that workers would strengthen their arms, slaughter horses, cattle and sheep, drill holes in iron girders, and fasten buttons on other people's trousers. Have the strength to sell carrots, sewing machines and cars, have the strength to kill insects, clean horse barns, empty garbage cans, wash toilets,Dissolved Gas Flotation, have the strength to write news headlines and cut tickets in the subway. Strength. Strength. It turns out that this trick of muttering and teasing is just to give people a little strength. Suddenly they came to a small square. It was the Church of Saint Clotilde. People were watching mass. Fillmore's head was still a little groggy, and he stubbornly wanted to look at it, too, supposedly "for fun.". I was somewhat disturbed by this, first of all because I had never looked at a mass, and secondly because I looked shabby and felt shabby. Fillmore, too, looked even more shabby than I, with his big slouch hat askew and his overcoat stained with sawdust from the last whorehouse we had been to. Anyway, we marched in, and the worst thing was that they pushed us out. I was surprised by what I saw, and I didn't feel uneasy at all. It took me a while to get used to the dim light, and I staggered after him, holding Fillmore by the sleeve, rotary vacuum disc filters ,Belt Filter Press, when a strange sound came to my ears, like some hollow hum from a cold paving slab. It was a large, forlorn tomb, with a steady stream of mourners coming in and out, the antechamber necessary before going to the subterranean world, the temperature about 55 or 60 degrees Fahrenheit, no music — except that indescribable mournful music from the top of the cellar, like a million cauliflowers wailing in the darkness. The people in shrouds muttered, helpless, dejected beggars, who stretched out their hands in a trance, muttering unintelligible pleas for mercy. I knew this would happen, but a man who knows of slaughterhouses and mortuaries and dissecting rooms will instinctively avoid them. I often pass a clergyman in the street, laboriously reciting a small prayer book in his hand. Idiot I said to myself, and then I ignored it. There are all kinds of nerds in the street, and this priest is not the most surprising. Two thousand years of human folly have made us less sensitive to this, but when you are suddenly sent to this priest and see him functioning as an alarm clock in this small world, you will have some completely different emotions. In an instant, all these slobbering, lip-moving tricks almost had meaning, and we moved from one place to another, examining the scene with the sober consciousness of an all-night carnival. We must have been conspicuous in this fashion, for we never crossed ourselves, and never moved our lips except to murmur a few insensitive words. Perhaps no one would have noticed this if Fillmore had not been so stubborn as to walk by the altar in the middle of the ceremony. He was looking for the exit, and I guess he thought of the exit and took a good look at the most sacred scene, which meant taking a closer look. We had been safe, and were walking towards the light that was likely to be the exit passage, when a priest flashed out of the gloom and blocked the way.
He wanted to ask us where we were going and where we were going, and we replied quite politely that we were looking for the exit. We said "exit" in English, because we were so scared that we couldn't remember how to say "exit" in French. Without a word, the clergyman seized our arms, pushed us through a side door, and sent us tumbling out into the blinding sunlight. It happened so suddenly and unexpectedly that we didn't fully react when we got to the sidewalk. We narrowed our eyes and walked out a few steps, then instinctively turned around. The minister was still standing on the steps, pale as a ghost, staring at us like a devil, and his lungs must have exploded. I didn't blame him when I recalled it later, but I couldn't help laughing when I saw him in a long robe and a small melon skin hat on his head. I looked at Fillmore and he laughed too. We stood there for a good minute, laughing in the face of this wretch. I guess he was a little confused at first, but suddenly he rushed down the steps, shaking his fist at us, as if he were serious. When he rushed out of the fence, he rushed over, and now some instinct to protect himself reminded me to slip away. I grabbed Fillmore by the sleeve and ran away, and he said like a fool,disc air diffuser, "No, no!"! I'm not running! "Run!" I exclaimed. We'd better get out of here quickly. This guy is completely crazy. So we ran away, as hard as we could. khnwatertreatment.com