A remaining pear – perfect, with pink and red blushes on yellow, unblemished skin. Wide hips and buttocks, narrow curved shoulders, thin, elegant neck. Leaning like an odelisque against an unassuming mandarin. The pear is heedless of its various admirers – encircled by books – Hegel, Baudelaire and Perec. All manner of marginal things are drawn towards its bright and compelling presence. They jockey for position. They struggle to be close and, in being close, gain a muted capacity to appear. While the pear itself is relaxed and indolent. It is completely unconcerned. It has no sense that it risks becoming over-ripe, that its luxurious existence must soon end. Instead it meditatively gazes across a wide open bay of towels and coats towards a dark and obscure hinterland. At the same time, it looks inward towards its own perfection. It experiences this perfection, without reflecting upon it or seeking adequate ways to articulate it. The pear is increasingly swollen. It pulses with beauty, darkness and putrefaction.

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