Sun and Shadow
Thirty years ago, Marseilles lay burning in the sun, one day.
A blazing sun upon a fierce August day was no greater
rarity in southern France then, than at any other time,
before or since. Everything in Marseilles, and about Marseilles,
had stared at the fervid sky, and been stared at in return, until a
staring habit had become universal there. Strangers were stared
out of countenance by staring white houses, staring white walls,
staring white streets, staring tracts of arid road, staring hills from
which verdure was burnt away. The only things to be seen not
fixedly staring and glaring were the vines drooping under their
load of grapes. These did occasionally wink a little, as the hot air
barely moved their faint leaves.