— The lady is a perfect gentleman.
REFUGE
I have a lovely picture in my mind, which I can conjure up at will, and it invariably comes back to me in its entirety. It is the image of a forest, and in that forest I can see a green clearing, enveloped in semi-darkness and surrounded by tall trees. And in the midst of this pleasing darkness there are many butterflies, and a tawny lion is reclining, while I sit embroidering on the ground nearby. The hours pass like countless years, and the years pass in reality; the large butterflies have decorative wings and the tawny lion is speckled but the speckles are only there to show that he is tawny, and from the speckles one can see what the lion would look like if he were not tawny. The nice thing about this image is the penumbra, which demands nothing beyond my powers of vision. And there I sit with butterfly and lion. My clearing has a wealth of minerals: these consist of colours. There is only one danger: the dread knowledge that outside the clearing I am lost. For it will no longer be the forest (something love has already taught me) but only an empty field (which fear has taught me): so empty that I might just as easily go in one direction as in the other, a wilderness so devoid of cover and concealment that I should never be able to find an animal there to call my own. I put my fears aside, take a deep breath to regain my composure and settle down to enjoy my intimacy with the lion and the butterflies; we do not think, we simply enjoy ourselves. In this image-cum-refuge I am not black and white. Even without being able to see myself, I know that to these creatures I am coloured; without exceeding their powers of vision for that would unsettle them and we are in no sense unsettling. I am speckled with blue and green simply to show that I am neither blue nor green. Just look at what I am not! The penumbra is dark green and moist. I know that I have mentioned this already, but I am repeating it out of happiness: I want to repeat it over and over again. Until we actually feel that we are there. And really enjoying ourselves. Truly, I have never been so contented. Why? What does it matter? Each of us is in the right place, and I am perfectly happy with mine. I cannot resist repeating myself for things are getting better all the time: the tame lion, and the butterflies flitting quietly as I sit on the ground embroidering. We are thoroughly enjoying our clearing in the forest. We are contented.
A FLOWER BEWITCHED AND TOO BRIGHT BY FAR
I swear, believe me — the drawing-room was in darkness — but the music summoned me to the centre of the room — there was something lurking there — the entire room grew dark within the darkness — I was in darkness — yet I felt that, however dark, the room was bright — I took refuge in my own fear — just as I had already taken refuge from you in you yourself — what did I find? — nothing except that the dark room lit up with the brightness of a smile — and that it was inherent in the flower — I was trembling in the centre of this awkward light — believe me, even though I cannot explain — it was as if I had never seen a flower — it was something perfect and full of grace which seemed superhuman, but was life — and I nervously pretended that the flower was the soul of someone who had just died — I invented this because I did not have the strength to look directly at the life of a flower — and I looked at that bright centre whose energy was so light that it appeared to stir and become dislocated — and the flower was as vibrant as if a menacing bee were hovering overhead — a bee frozen by fear? — no — it would be more accurate to say that the excited bee and flower were meeting — one life up against another, one life on behalf of another — or frozen by fear before the suffocating grace of this flickering candle which was the flower — I was the bee — and the flower trembled before the dangerous sweetness of the bee — believe me, even if I myself cannot explain it — some fatal rite was being accomplished — the room was filled with that penetrating smile — yet it was nothing more than the whitening of shadows — there was no remaining proof of what I had experienced — I can swear to nothing — I am the only proof of myself — and by giving myself I can explain what I alone witnessed — I cannot understand how anyone could be afraid of a rose — for that flower was a rose — I have had the same experience with violets which were extremely delicate — but I was afraid — they smelled of the grave — and the flowers and bee already summon me — alas I cannot refuse — I am being summoned — and at heart I truly want to go — this rash encounter with a flower is my encounter with my destiny.
WITHOUT ANY WARNING
There were so many things which I did not know at the time. No one had told me, for example, about this fierce sun at three o’clock in the afternoon. Nor had anyone told me about this dry rhythm of living, this relentless dust. They had vaguely warned me it might be painful. But I had no idea that what would bring me hope from afar would spread over me like an eagle’s wing. I had no idea what it meant to be protected by great outspread, menacing wings, an eagle’s beak lowered towards me and smiling. In adolescence, when I triumphantly wrote in my diary that I did not believe in love, that was precisely when I loved most of all. I had no idea how harmful lies could be. I began to lie as a precaution, and because no one warned me about the danger of being wary, I was no longer able to rid myself of the habit of lying. And I told so many lies that I began to lie even to my very lies. And this — I was amazed to discover — was the same as telling the truth. Until I became so degenerate that I would tell the most shameless lies: I was telling the naked truth.
FEAR OF THE UNKNOWN (EXTRACT)
So this was happiness. To begin with she felt empty. Then her eyes became moist: this was happiness, but since I am mortal, this love for the world transcends me. Love for this mortal life was gently killing her little by little. And what does one do when one is happy? What do I make of happiness? What am I to make of this strange, penetrating tranquillity which is already beginning to cause me anguish like some great silence? To whom shall I give this happiness of mine which is beginning to frighten me and tear me apart? No, she did not want to be happy. For fear of entering some unknown territory. She preferred the humdrum life she knew. Afterwards she tried to laugh in order to mask her awesome and fatal choice. And pretending to be amused, she thought: To be happy? God offers nuts to those without teeth. But she was not amused. She was sad and thoughtful. She was returning to the death of everyday existence.
THE GIFT
… Perhaps love is to give one’s own solitude to others? For it is the very last thing we have to offer.
TO EAT
The food was awful, but there was one good thing: it would revive me for some better meal in the future whenever that might be.
Blanquette de Veau. We went to the restaurant with the sole intention of eating well. We were more interested in food than any conversation. When the maître recommended Blanquette de Veau, something told me I should choose something else. I brought up the same old excuse that I did not really care for anything with a white sauce. My friend, who is a great gourmand, assured me that a white sauce is not to be despised. So we decided to compromise and share any risk by ordering one Blanquette and one Tournedos cooked in a wine sauce.