The Letter The Performance  

Binnenthal, this mysterious little valley with its Cheerful shepherds, with its paths interspersed with glitter, and with spirits dancing in full flight? ----- With heavenly intervention, Sophia and I were carried off into Paradise Lost and we invented magical kiss after magical kiss e.t.c., e.t.c.
Women who, pipe in mouth, carry heavy baskets on their backs without batting an eyelid ----- and without having read Mary Wollstonecraft ----- Glitter-sounding, shrill little angels, cradled in cloud, swirling and twirling and conducting spirited dialogues through deep craggy mountainsides. And when I direct my insatiable gaze from the “Fäld” to the Furggen - I see this Mighty mountain with its sheer crevices and its reddish-grey tints, which darkly and slothfully across the valley, Lustfully steals devilish glances. I painted a Portrait of Sophia's grace and her shyness, as sweet as the Perfume of young Alpine roses she came bounding towards me beautifully coiffured, with eyes ablaze and flicked her pistil-tongue into my open mouth – as if I were an impatient bumble-bee greedily demanding something Sweet. Sophia wanted above all to lie down on the lilac-coloured, flower-bedecked hill, which was glistening with dew. Enveloped in a haze of multi-coloured Fragrant powder, Sophia whispered to the Apollo which had landed gently on her delicate lips, reddened by the Alpine coolness, the words: Your fur, your coat, your circular-striped feelers, which so Gently reach out for the Unknown, the pores in my skin all over my body are one goblet: drink, drink, drink my beloved Parnassius and let my dreams be filled with Pleasure and Delight.
Euphoric with his sensuousness and lightness, Parnassius prances around like a prima ballerina over the Fragrant blossoms spread out beneath him, and then swings away, like a gently vibrating harp. Kings of the earth are Worms of this earth, and I would be an Apollo, and would be what I am.
The sky was of the Deepest blue when we met a group of young peasant-women as we came down from our leisurely Stroll from the Geisfeld in the direction of Lengenbach, the route being strewn with green Serpentine on all sides. One of them was jauntily chewing tobacco, the others had skull-shaped pipes. They urged us to pay a visit to the Lengenbach by the mine. They joked mischievously, blowing smoke into our faces. “The Din of Hell” ----- a flashing Plumage of sound, a multi-confusion of racing sparkling notes, where length, breadth, highth and time and space are lost, a compressed multitude of voices, flame-tongued, penetrated into my ears like sugar-sweet breath, the air was filled with flying, fluttering flakes of sound; glancing up at the Heavens, we plucked the individual tones from the flaming Star-filled sky. And what is it that overwhelms the firm and true senses? I feel it; it is the sound itself.

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