also very fine; likewise the fish, the butterflies, the antelopes and the other beasts of the field; but the sea-shells and conches are the prettiest, for they look as if they had been created for its amusement by a divinely playful spirit, fascinated by countless possibilities. They are pink, tempting like a girl’s mouth, purple, amber-coloured, mother-of-pearl and black, white, streaked, heavy as an anvil and as filigree as Queen Mab’s powder-puff, twisted, fluted, spiky, oval, bearing a likeness to kidneys, eyes, lips, arrows, helmets and nothing on earth; translucent, opalescent, dainty, terrifying and indescribable. What was I going to say? Yes, when I was passing through the hordes and treasures of art, the collections of furniture, weapons, garments, carpets, carvings, porcelain, things chased, engraved, woven, kneaded, hammered, inlaid, and painted, enamelled and embroidered and woven, I again saw: nature is strange and mighty. All these are other sea-shells, produced by the urge of another divine and vehement playfulness; all this was
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