4
just entered by surprise, is so cool. I say hello to the coolness,
without in the least needing those words which human creatures
use for their greetings. Alas! the coolness is not the only thing
that took advantage of the door. I had forgotten that which, in
my past, I had learned to call my self. A human creature is
trying its best to remind me. It insists. It kisses me. It is
proper to return politeness for politeness, and so the pretenses
begin again. “Hello spirit clothed in a body.” I like these
words, I repeat them. Spirit is right, I would love to create for
myself the purity of a chess-player, not to renounce with joy, but
to play, to act, to revel in thoughts. No human contact ever
prevented my being lonely, then what is the good of soiling one
self. Through, with the pleasures (?) of the flesh.
For the third time I repeat: Hello spirit clothed in a body.
And thus I give the measure of a new confidence, to him who
enters.
Alas, misfortune had designed me merely to be present in
a body that believes itself clothed in spirit. A laugh, I get angry
and mark the contrast that exists between that other one and me.
My spirit is clothed in a body, as to thee thy body is clothed with
spirit. I forsee the blow, parry it, receive it anyway. Then I
am not alone any more. It is final. Good day, good night. I
will go and see how the sun gets up in the Bois de Boulogne. I
walked. Chilly shreds of dawn were clinging to the trees. A
little boat, abandoned by man, was fast rusting. Happy in its
solitude. “Alone like me. Alone. Illusion again. It seems
that the other one had followed me: I hear its voice: “It is the
yacht of that actress who was drowned in the Rhine. The yacht
of that actress who was drowned in the Rhine.” Yes, I remem
ber. Remember. Again forever. He was apparently right,
that teacher of Philosophy of mine, who claimed that the present
did not exist. But this is beside the question. A yacht is aban
doned on the Seine. Who would dare live in it since an actress
plunged off it, to drown herself in the Rhine, in a night orgy, in
the summer of 1911.
1911. The year of my first communion. A night of orgy,
repeated the cook commenting upon the suicide which easily
might be a murder. In my dreams orgy rhymed with host.
Why was I offered so early these sinful or wretched crea
tures, to love? I wished the rivers cursed, the canals, through
which had been towed, to the bridge of Suresness, this peniche
the last worldly home of a woman who, in my innocence having
faith in programs and magazines, I believed to be happy. “She
is a queen in our Paris” so liked to say a friend of my mother,
who was fond of splendors.
Then, did she also feel herself miserably free in her solitude