It is so simple that it is doomed to fail. The excess of simplicity obstructs understanding. One must experience a mystical trance in order to attain the splendor which the human mind, in normal circumstances, qualifies as indigence. The good news is that extreme thirst makes for an ideal mystical trance.
I advise prolonging it. Those who thirst should delay the moment of drinking. Not indefinitely, of course. The point is not to endanger one’s health. I am not asking for a meditation on one’s thirst, I am asking that it be deeply experienced, body and soul, before it is quenched.
Try this experiment: after dying of thirst for a good long while, don’t drink your glass of water all in one go. Take a single sip and keep it in your mouth for a few seconds before swallowing. Notice how wonderful it feels. That dazzling moment is God.
I repeat, this is not a metaphor for God. The love you feel in that precise moment for your sip of water is God. It is I who am able to feel this love for everything that exists. That is what it means to be Christ.
Up to now, it has not been easy. Tomorrow, it will be excruciatingly difficult. Therefore, in order to succeed, I have made a decision which will help me: I will not drink any water from the pitcher the jailer has left in my cell.
It makes me sad. I would have liked, one last time, to know that supreme sensation, the one I prefer above all. I have deliberately decided to forgo it. Which is unwise: dehydration will be a handicap when it comes time for me to carry the cross. But I possess enough self-awareness to know that my thirst will protect me. It can become so great that all other suffering will be deadened.
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I must try to get some sleep. I lie down on the floor of the jail, which is dirtier than bare earth. I’ve learned to be indifferent to foul smells. All I have to do is remind myself that nothing smells bad on purpose—I don’t know if it’s true, but in any event, this reasoning helps me to put up with even the worst stench.
I’ve always been amazed at how, when we lie down, we can let the weight of our body go. Even though I don’t weigh much, what a deliverance! Incarnation means carrying this baggage of flesh around with me. In this day and age, plump people have the ascendancy. Not a model for me, I’m thin: you cannot be stout and then proclaim you are there on behalf of the poor. Madeleine thinks I’m handsome, but she’s the only one. My own mother moans when she sees me, “Eat, you look pitiful!”
I eat as little as possible. If I had to carry more than the hundred and twenty pounds I weigh, I’d be out of breath. I’ve noticed that quite a few people won’t listen to me because I’m so thin. In their eyes I read, “How can anyone find wisdom in such a beanpole?”
That is also why I chose Peter as my commander: he may be less inspired than John and less faithful than just any old stranger, but he has the features of a colossus. When he speaks, people are impressed. On top of it, that’s true for me, too. Although I know he will deny me, he inspires so much trust. It’s not just that he’s tall and well built. I love watching him eat. He doesn’t pick at his food, he grabs hold of it and gobbles it down, no simpering, with all the rough enjoyment of a brave man. He drinks straight from the pitcher, emptying it in one go, then he burps and wipes his mouth with the back of his strong hand. It’s not an act, he hasn’t noticed that other people have a different way of eating. You can’t help but love him.
As for John, he eats the way I do. I don’t know if he is seeking to imitate my own parsimony. Either way, it means my affection has to be kept at a distance. What a strange species we are! Nothing human is foreign to me. When I’m eating, I have to stop myself from saying to him, “Go ahead, eat, you get on our nerves with your manners!” It’s all the more absurd in that I behave like that myself.
For me to love John, I have to leave the table. When he’s walking next to me, listening to me, I love him. I’ve been assured that I’m a good listener. I don’t know what sort of effect that has on people, to have me listen to them. I do know that the way John listens is pure love, and it’s thrilling.
When I talk to Peter, he opens his eyes wide and listens for a minute. Then I see his attention begin to falter. It’s not his fault, he doesn’t realize, his gaze darts around looking for a place to settle. The moment I speak to John, he lowers his gaze slightly, as if he knows that what I am about to share with him in confidence will move him, even trouble him. When I stop talking, he remains silent for a little while then looks up at me again, his eyes shining.
Madeleine, too, listens to me like that. It is less astonishing, for an unfair reason: in this era of mine, women are taught to listen in this way. And yet, the ones who actually listen closely are few and far between. How I wish I could spend this last night with her! She used to say, “Let our sleep be the sleep of wild passion.” Then she would curl up next to me and fall asleep at once. I’ve never been a sound sleeper, so it was as if she were sleeping for both of us.
Thanks to her, I discovered that sleeping is an act of love. When we slept like that, our souls mingled even more than when we were making love. It was a long disappearance that took us away together. When at last I sank into sleep, it was with the exquisite sensation of being shipwrecked.
My illusion was confirmed upon awakening. I had lost my bearings to such a degree that our bed had become the shore where we had washed up, and where we were amazed to find we had survived. The gratitude of waking up on the beach, next to one’s beloved!
So powerful was this impression of having survived that the dawning day was bound to bring its share of joy. The first embrace, the first word of love, the first sip.
If there was a river nearby, Madeleine would suggest going for a dip. “There is no better way to start the morning,” she said. Nothing like it, indeed, to wash away the smells of too good a night.
“Make sure you quench your thirst while we’re there,” she added, “because I’ll have nothing better to offer you.”
We never had any sort of breakfast. The thought of eating the moment you get out of bed has always turned my stomach. I can’t believe it has become customary. But a few sips of water were just the thing to refresh one’s breath.
These delightful thoughts have no hypnagogic power. If I really want to fall asleep, I have to force myself to feel bored. It takes an iron will to be deliberately bored. Alas, perhaps it’s the imminence of death: nothing seems boring to me now—even the speeches of the Pharisees, which used to make my eyes turn glassy, now seem comical. I try to recall Joseph’s attempts to teach me the art of woodworking. I was such a bad pupil! And how disconcerted Joseph would look, he who never got angry!
Christ means gentle. The irony of it is that my human parents are a thousand times gentler than I am. They found each other: creatures of such similar goodness, it’s enough to make you discouraged. I can see straight into people’s hearts, I know when they’re good simply because they’re making an effort—that, by the way, was often my own attitude. Joseph was good by nature. I was at his side when he was dying, he did not even curse the stupid accident that cost him his life, but smiled at me and said:
“Mind you don’t let this happen to you, too.”
And he died.
No, Joseph, I will not die falling off a roof.
Mother arrived too late.
“He didn’t suffer,” I said.
She stroked his face tenderly. My parents were not in love with each other, but they loved each other very much.