In the time of the velour revolution, the lie of the land obsessed him in
his soul-searching, as did the continuous thought of the Mistral and the
parade of colors flashing through the arrière pensée. The first
pale leaves
moved him deeply, as did the fistfuls of moist autumn earth he clutched,
and the long drinks he took to refresh himself from shallow brooks. But
from time to time memories of Aix broke his nerve, and the emphasis on
unbroken surface then in favor compromised his achievements. At such
moments he would shake his clayey fists at the imagined adversaries, and
vanish into the landscape.