Henri Rousseau Merry Jesters

Henri Rousseau Merry JestersHenri Rousseau Exotic LandscapeHenri Rousseau Exotic Landscape 1908
Pantalaimon's gesture had worked. Will swallowed hard and stood up again, wiping the tears out of his eyes.
"All right," he said, "I'll try again. Tell me what to do."
This time he forced his mind to do what Giacomo Paradisi said, gritting his teeth, trembling with exertion, sweating. Lyra Will tried again. Lyra could see the intensity in his body, saw his jaw working, and then saw an authority descend over it, calming and relaxing and clarifying. The authority was Will's own—or his daemon's, perhaps. How he must miss having a daemon! The loneliness of it… No wondewas bursting to interrupt, because she knew this process. So did Dr. Malone, and so did the poet Keats, whoever he was, and all of them knew you couldn't get it by straining toward it. But she held her tongue and clasped her hands."Stop," said the old man gently. "Relax. Don't push. This is a subtle knife, not a heavy sword. You're gripping it too tight. Loosen your fingers. Let your mind wander down your arm to your wrist and then into the handle, and out along the blade. No hurry, go gently, don't force it. Just wander. Then along to the very tip, where the edge is sharpest of all. You become the tip of the knife. Just do that now. Go there and feel that, and then come back."r