TE17 Mysterious Montenegro

The Dreamed Part

The bed with Finnegans pillowand blankets with Oblomov print.

The bed to which he has been adding pieces and appendices and even a ladder to access its height (the height of one of those lofted beds of his childhood, bunk beds they’re called, command bridges, off of which to jump or up which to climb) making it something unmistakably his, a unique specimen. Almost a living and fluctuating organism. Or a kind of exoskeleton that defines and contains him. The furniture version—a bed that you don’t take off even to go to bed—of that second skin that is the ruinous wedding dress in flames of Miss Havishamor something like that. But in perfect shape and perfectly maintained.

His bed like a cathedral, like a site of worship and pilgrimage.

His bed like a dream made reality.

Or is it an irreality made dream?

Or a †?

Does it matter?

His bed is, yes, much more than a bed. This bed is a normal bed like a black marble mausoleum with angels and gargoyles is a simple tomb in the earth with two pieces of wood in a cross. His bed is a colossal structure—ebony with inlaid mirrors and precious stones—that seems to rock, like a ship, on the waves of his memories and on the rails by which he moves far and wide throughouthishouse.Hehasordered(theroyaltiesthatceaselessly 207