You were no longer only a decor. What do I say? The medi
ocre orderers of a mediocre decor. And here there is no longer
a decor. There is nothing but you left, my God, there is nothing
but you—and Satan. Satan, alas, is not, as one imagines, your
reflection.
THE WHARF
But I am in the midst of you, angels and demons of medi
ation, (for the angels also watch) this beautiful day, and upon
the wharf there are groups of men who play with the sun and
with the shadow. It would be so simple to love you, men, and
see: my heart is already full of this love; but I know that it is
impossible and that one can love only oneself. One self, God—
and who else? This we should never know perhaps. All love
leads to love of oneself, or in part and leads back to it—and love
of oneself, where does it lead? To Satan, to God and to whom
else? This should put an end to the vain ideology in which you
delight, little men, which pretentiously you create each day, and
forget the Creator.
Am I indifferent to you? I wish it. But however my uncer
tain manner and these questions always without answer surprise
you. “Who is then the one who advances toward the sea and
before whom the sea recedes? It is so easy (is it not) to go upon
the sea without danger: We have excellent boats, etc.” Have
you never seen careless souls walking upon the sea? Faith is
needed but we do without it.
You surround me. You urge me to satisfy your question. I
do not know, I do not know: I would be like a child—to know
still less, especially not to know that I do not know. I astonish
you, you say. As a matter of fact the wisdom of children is
astonishing. You do not understand that one can walk, thus,
without an aim, or with an aim which continually recedes (you
murmur that it is the same thing) And perhaps, I would have
to make only a gesture for the sea to stop, submissive beast,
curving its snowy back. A gesture! You understand, a
gesture
I am like a false prophet who eternally delays the miracle
which crowns him king.
ANDRE DE88ON
S3