Shipwrecked frontier pioneer

The epilogue to be narrated is that, at last, Jules Verne found himself in front of real icebergs
standing on a real Pole, naked and hurt his vestments* by the blizzards of the ides of November

in his last day

when Verne lived in his flesh all the literary horror that he depicted writing comfortably in his studio, whose walls were covered with Arab carpets, yellow-ed by the smoke and the opium.

Ghosts

fantasmas and celestial creatures with venereal diseases torture the eye, unheard creatures ascending, obscure entities, black like the niche of the death, white like the honey of London, climbing by the Verne's legs

insane, he feels them pressing his finely crocheted socks of wool, licking his knees, sucking his thighs, and when he looks

there's nothing there no.




Nothing but the celestial ice of a South Pole, south, that sibilant n...

in the insupportable winds of the savage south floats the face of the love lost, and an anguish that could be 100,000 times worse if the angel of the sepulchre were not so... close?









And what else Verne?

What ELSE:


in the direction north-east, where the vipers of the abandon dance, Verne notes something that starts developing itself like a blessing
or a nightmare

among the diapsid ophidia, in the middle of the dancing colubridae, Verne sees himself, calling


himself who has come for himself, showing for the first and last time his own humanity split in two, to lead him self into the nevermore
his flesh expanded and disunited in two, sort of bodily extrapolation but... where's this anticipation from?




This psychic projection.











And what else, Verne?



What... e... lse





Gabril archangel trumpeteer, blower, he announces in his eye where the throne of the Ultima Thule is:
a furious finger points

both Jules Verne hear, all eyes


the burning cobras burn more frenetically, twisting the red and black rings in which their slick skin is divided

rings of snake skin dancing under the quadrature of Serpens and Corona Borealis

burning cobras in the ice

Gabril?:



And when he looks there's nothing there no, just his own self
Verne
leading himself into that caparison replete of beakless birds

into that fossa of perpetual nothing that cannot be named



and what else Verne?

What e...

*Meat of the paradox.