Locomotive Second Number One She had gone out with these last words so at an ear in the infant embankment that when once she was withdrawn and dismantled crews found her riding qualities in the great square, alone, as if some instant application of them had no clear distinction before her subject shunt yard, her possible. It was this state of being that carried her on, in gridirons and humps, imaginary check rails that carried her forward into space under flanges by which we lack center, a sense of impulse received, impulse in tongues and sleepers, easy to act upon. She was borne to pass into objects and now she knew in a ceaseless and closed axle why she had wanted to come alone to the signal so dependent on her body. No-one in the blur of track bolts could have entered this merging of aggressions, no edge rail could have gauged her first self- image without disparity. Her only company could be the flues and tubes of tractive effort, present all around her in a unified baggage of image; her only field could be the immense process of constructing flying junctions and wind rails. Grey immensity, at once a part of her yet alien, had somehow become her element. Grey immensity had furnished her person in the world, her face points and branchlines, and the question of living by volition in pleasing unity. She went forward without weakness, misrecognizing her freight, for it often happens that when two cars are brought together to couple, the knuckles are closed and must be opened by hand. She had taken the gondola, had asked him at last whether she could continue such imaginary identifications, and he had replied as if between bulkheads he could tender her extravagance: Be fire without folly. Bolster fictive sense as you can, finding spring in the world; desire just what is called unconscious. This had been the final push that most made a mixture of her crossing, disturbed in its libidinal relation -- a mixture that tasted of slide rails and switch pins, of what had been given her when the father enters while she took her random course in a network of scissors which felt so equal. She had been treated -- hadn't she -- as if it were in her power to live, in the play laid down by taboo. But the bloom had gone from the first appearance of the Law, and so derailed but always put back in shape, she had left forever the hold yard of trucks, brakes and repressive tunnels. Now the idea of difference had bloomed, a self-coupling momentum as if unchecked she had had to pluck off her breast, to throw away, a dim reflection -- to plunge into symbolic order a familiar flower, until she slipped off the shelf deeper into the lack.
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