"Orangegroves and immense melonfields north of Jaffa." (U4.194)
"You pay eighty marks and they plant a dunam of land for you with olives, oranges, almonds or citrons. Olives cheaper: oranges need artificial irrigation. Every year you get a sending of the crop. Your name entered for life as owner in the book of the union. Can pay ten down and the balance in yearly instalments. Bleibtreustrasse 34, Berlin, W.15.
Nothing doing. Still an idea behind it.
He looked at the cattle, blurred in silver heat. Silverpowdered olivetrees. Quiet long days: pruning, ripening." (U4.194)
From Berlin, a Zionist newspaper dated May 27th 1904. I was hoping to find in it an ad for Agudath Netaim, but sadly I did not.
"Olives are packed in jars, eh? I have a few left from Andrews. Molly spitting them out. Knows the taste of them now. Oranges in tissue paper packed in crates. Citrons too. Wonder is poor Citron still in Saint Kevin's parade. And Mastiansky with the old cither." (U4.202)
"Pleasant evenings we had then." (U4.206)
"Molly in Citron's basketchair. Nice to hold, cool waxen fruit, hold in the hand, lift it to the nostrils and smell the perfume. Like that, heavy, sweet, wild perfume. Always the same, year after year. They fetched high prices too, Moisel told me. Arbutus Place: Pleasants street: pleasant old times. Must be without a flaw, he said. Coming all that way: Spain, Gibraltar, Mediterranean, the Levant." (U7.206)
"Crates lined up on the quayside at Jaffa, chap ticking them off in a book, navvies handling them barefoot in soiled dungarees. There's whatdoyoucallhim out of. How do you? Doesn't see. Chap you know just to salute bit of a bore. His back is like that Norwegian captain's. Wonder if I'll meet him today. Watering cart. To provoke the rain." (U4.212)
"On earth as it is in heaven.
A cloud began to cover the sun slowly, wholly. Grey. Far.
No, not like that." (U4.217)
"A barren land, bare waste." (U4.219)
"Vulcanic lake, the dead sea: no fish, weedless, sunk deep in the earth. No wind could lift those waves, grey metal, poisonous foggy waters. Brimstone they called it raining down: the cities of the plain: Sodom, Gomorrah, Edom. All dead names. A dead sea in a dead land, grey and old. Old now. It bore the oldest, the first race." (U4.219)
"Grey horror seared his flesh. Folding the page into his pocket he turned into Eccles street, hurrying homeward. Cold oils slid along his veins, chilling his blood: age crusting him with a salt cloak. Well, I am here now. Yes, I am here now. Morning mouth bad images." (U4.230)
"Got up wrong side of the bed. Must begin again those Sandow's exercises. On the hands down. Blotchy brown brick houses. Number eighty still unlet. Why is that? Valuation is only twentyeight. Towers, Battersby, North, MacArthur: parlour windows plastered with bills. Plasters on a sore eye." (U4.233)
"To smell the gentle smoke of tea, fume of the pan, sizzling butter. Be near her ample bedwarmed flesh. Yes, yes." (U4.237)
"Quick warm sunlight came running from Berkeley Road, swiftly" (U4.240)
"in slim sandals, along the brightening footpath. Runs, she runs to meet me, a girl with gold hair on the wind." (U4.240)
"She was reading the card, propped on her elbow.
- She got the things, she said.
He waited till she had laid the card aside and curled herself back slowly with a snug sigh.
- Hurry up with that tea, she said. I'm parched." (U4.259)