When the food arrived, I set about sampling it and after the first few mouthfuls, I felt there was something wrong.
I asked my friend hesitantly: Don’t you get the impression that something here has been burnt? There is a slight taste of something charred. I could not decide what it was because in my hunger I had chewed everything together. Whereupon my friend tried to reassure me: The rice has probably been overcooked.
As for the Blanquette. Certain dishes, when they are too refined, provoke nausea. Excessive refinement makes one almost feel like being sick. Besides, there should always be a touch of simplicity in good cooking.
As for the Tournedos, that was another mistake. Good meat should give one something to chew on! And any fillet of beef which cuts like butter is a clear warning that the waiter has not heeded my instructions.
This was enough to make me lose my appetite. And nothing could take away the sense of disappointment. I felt quite frustrated, and in a fuming rage I inwardly vowed never to eat again. For I am so immature that I cannot bear to have my pleasures spoiled. ‘So much for eating well’, I said bitterly to my friend. ‘Be patient’, she told me calmly, ‘your appetite will come back’. Her own mother is such a wise and practical woman that, whenever there is illness in the family, she immediately does two important things: she administers medicine and then goes off to her room to pray. And then all is well.
But that is another story. To end the first one, my appetite did come back eventually. But as for Blanquette de Veau — never again. And I am not joking.
FINAL SURRENDER
It is pleasant to open one’s hands and allow to flow freely that emptiness-cum-fullness which one was cruelly holding back. Then suddenly to discover to one’s amazement: I have opened my hands and heart and am losing nothing! And then sudden fear. Wakeup! for there is danger in having one’s heart so free.
Until one perceives that in this expansiveness lies the perilous pleasure of existing. And there is a strange reassurance: always having something to squander. So hold back nothing of this emptiness-cum-fullness. Squander it.
PLAYING WITH MERCURY
It always has been and always will be a red-letter day for me when a thermometer gets broken and the silver mercury spills on to the floor, runs a little way and then becomes immobilised and impregnable. I have just broken another one and I try to retrieve the mercury with the help of a sheet of paper which I cautiously slip underneath. But it resists all my efforts. No sooner do I think I have succeeded than it disintegrates between my fingers like damp fireworks. Not unlike what apparently happens to us humans after death, when the energy escapes from our soul and merges with the atmosphere. How hopeless trying to collect that sensitive liquid. It refuses to be handled and maintains its integrity even when divided into innumerable little bubbles: each tiny bubble is a separate entity, whole and entire, even when divided. One only has to prod one of those bubbles very gently for it to be sucked in by another next to it and together they form a larger and rounder bubble. Ever since childhood I have had this same dream whenever I break a thermometer. I dream of thousands of broken thermometers and of an endless stream of dense, lunar, cold mercury spilling all over. And there I am, serious and absorbed, as I play with the living matter of this vast expanse of silver metal. I imagine myself sinking into this pool of mercury which has escaped from the thermometers. As I sink deeper, thousands of bubbles are released, one by one, thick and impenetrable. Mercury is an impregnable substance. In what sense impregnable? I cannot explain. I refuse to explain. There is nothing to explain. Mercury is impregnable and that is that. It seems to possess a cerebral coolness which controls its reaction. I feel as if I am in love with mercury but mercury feels nothing for me. There is none of that submissiveness one expects from material things. For mercury has a life of its own. Coping with mercury is not like coping with other material things. It submits to.no one. And no one is allowed to handle it. Our soul uses our body in order to avoid being contaminated by life and this tiny gleaming nucleus is the ultimate refuge of mankind. Wild beasts also possess this shining nucleus which helps to keep them completely wild and alive.
I see that I have moved on from mercury to the mystery of wild beasts. The fact is that mercury — which constitutes lunar matter — causes me to think, leads me from one truth to another, until I come to the nucleus of that purity and integrity which each of us possesses. Who? I ask. Who has not played with a broken thermometer?
THE SLOTH
They asked the sloth.
— Sloth, would you like some porridge?
The sloth replied slowly:
— Yeeeees, pleeeeease.
— Well, come and get some.
— Nooooo, thaaaaanks … I’ve change my miiiiind …
A rainy day makes one feel so lazy. When it rains I can never settle down to write. I am on my way to spend the weekend in Nova Friburgo. It is raining and near the main bus station I come across some sloths. It is more than I can bear and almost sends me to sleep. I stare at those soggy sloths, motionless, and dying of sloth. They give off a nice animal smell. The colour of stone, one could almost say they have no colour.
Nova Friburgo is quite a place. And the farm where we are staying has everything: horses, chickens, jaboticaba trees, daisies, banana plants, lemons, roses. It has an open-air oven for baking bread. In other words, a real farm. And Nova Friburgo itself has an aristocratic air. I go to the main bus-station where I find a copy of the Jornal do Brasil [The Brazilian Times] with an article by Drummond de Andrade. I lunch on steak au poivre. Only instead of being served beef, my steak is pork. This is on a Saturday which is my own special day in the week. Last night I had such a vivid dream that I got up, dressed, and put on some make-up. When I realized it was all a dream, I went back to bed but not before eating something, for I suddenly felt famished. In my dream, I had become a man. I was on my way to meet someone and was anxious not to be late. I must not say any more. The details are much too personal.
On the farm I inspect the cattle and poultry. This morning I had bacon and eggs for breakfast. Nova Friburgo is delightful. The houses are painted pink and blue. Nature seems so peaceful when it rains! I can still see those sloths rooted to the same spot and soaking wet. Never stirring. The same could be said of me. This is my day for sloth. But I do not want to sleep: I want to take advantage of being on a farm with lots of animals. Time seems to have stopped still in Nova Friburgo. How I wish that oven were still in good working order and I could watch bread being baked. I see a coffee tree and this is enough to make me feel like drinking coffee. Scanning the pages of the Jornal do Brasil, I have come to the conclusion that the world is MAD. I missed the Charity Fair in Rio because of this trip to Nova Friburgo. I forgot to mention that there is a dog on the farm. A cross between a greyhound and a mongreclass="underline" a really friendly and playful dog. I must have another cup of coffee. I won’t be long.
I am back again. My transistor radio is tuned in to Mozart. Such a light-hearted piece of music. On the farm I have also seen a white horse which is completely naked. The rain has stopped. Time to get down to some work. But I have nothing to say. What am I going to say, for heaven’s sake? I shall say I picked a daisy and put it in the buttonhole of my black leather jacket where it looked so pretty. I must take another look at the sloths and inhale their damp odour. It is October, a neutral month. September, like May, is a happy month. The horse only comes back to sleep, and me too. I have decided to have a rest after lunch. A siesta does one good. I shall lunch at midday and read Portnoy’s Complaint while I am eating. A truly courageous book. I fall asleep halfway through it.