the angel is there like a watermark ...

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the angel is there like a watermark, a guarantee of your faultless vision. the angel has no goiter. the angel is there to drop sprigs of parsley into your omelette, to put a shamrock in your buttonhole. i could scrub the mythology out of a horse’s mane; i could scrub the yellow out of the yangtze kiang; i could scrub the date out of the man in the gondola; i could scrub out the clouds and the tissue paper in which were wrapped the bouquets with forked lightning…but the angel i can’t scrub out. the angel is my watermark

henry miller in ‘black spring’
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