Francis Ponge "The Oyster"
The oyster, the size of an average pebble, looks tougher, its colour is less
uniform, brilliantly whitish. It is a stubbornly closed world. And yet, it can be
opened: one must then hold it in the hollow of a dish towel, use a jagged and
rather tricky knife, repeat this many times. Curious fingers cut themselves on it,
nails break on it: it’s tough going. Hitting it that way leaves white circles, like
halos, on its envelope.
Inside, one finds a whole world to drink and eat: under a nacreous firmament
(strictly speaking), the heavens above recline on the heavens below and form a
single pool, a viscous and greenish bag, that flows in and out when you smell it or
look at it, fringed with blackish lace along the edges.
Sometimes, a very rare formula pearls in their nacreous throat, and right away
you have an ornament.
