Full text: The little review (12 (1926), 1)

T HEY EAT early and fast in the little mountain inns. 
I was alone at the table. 
Here I am alone in my room? 
I craved this adventure so long and so much that I 
often doubted it could ever be. So to-night, my wish at last 
fulfilled, I am alone with myself. No bridge is linking me to 
others. I have, as the only memories from the best and most 
beloved, a flower a picture. 
The flower—a rose fast fading in the toothbrush glass. 
Yesterday at the same hour, it was flourishing on my coat. 
The button-hole was high enough for the rose to caress my face 
if I stooped in the least. But each time I was surprised at the 
flowery softness. My skin by late afternoon was reminiscent of 
carnations. A whole winter, a whole spring had I not persisted 
in confusing—happiness with ragged-edge petals, on the noc 
turnal wisdom of a silk congealed into revers? 
A whole winter, a whole spring. Yesterday. 
In a railroad station, with closed eyes, the flower in a button 
hole condemns one still to believe in rugs, in bare shoulders, in 
Then I dare not hope that solitude is possible. 
Though solitude was all I desired in that theatre where for 
months, the red of the velvet on the seats, had become to me the 
very colour of boredom. Then I went again, in search of it, 
through the streets, at the end of day when the houses were illu 
minating, for new temptations, their shirts of stone, a garment 
as complicated as the unreal. 
I entered places where they dance, drink—I entered, satu 
rated with alcohol, with jazz, with all that drugs one, and 
drugged myself indifferently with what I heard, danced, drank, 
but happy to hear, dance and drink, so I could forget that which 
had limited but not helped me. 
Yes, I remember. Two o’clock in the morning. The bar is 
a tiny one. It is quite hot. The door opens. Long live the cool. 
Someone says “Hello” to me. A hand pats my shoulder. I am 
happy. Not for the voice, not for the hand, but the air that has

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