Chapter 3 1889

The first issue of "Middle School Student Magazine" was published.Seeing what Louis wrote was printed was equivalent to seeing my creation published, which gave me a great motivation: all the fleeting golden dreams can immediately become reality and last forever. This first step, dreaming of taking it immediately and letting time pass, seems to be an intolerable delay, and then, once this step is taken, it is almost unexpected, and I can't help being shocked, thinking to myself: " How come it's done." We had a great night, totally intoxicated by our ambitious dreams.The night before, he had asked me to send a sextet, and I was trying a new rhyming routine.The poem is absurd, I reread it and saw fourteen syllables in a line - realized when there were no stammers, and saw the final foot fall in the middle of a word - anyway, it's better than many The other poems are better, and they make up for it by ending in a joke that makes people laugh.The sextet has shades of rain – signed Zan Bar Dar…

I was informed that the poem was to be inserted in the publication—I wished the opposite, and I was flattered, for this was the first time. At the wonderful evening of future dreams, we talked to each other about our respective plans-maybe we should give up "The Middle School Student", and the two of us will move forward together.Later I thought, the magazine must be given up after all, but it still has this advantage: it can give us courage and let us dare to do it.It is really a pleasant thing to ensure that we will always be in a group and promote each other in the future; on the contrary, success or failure will always be alone, which is indeed terrible.I came up with an idea: Create a shared notebook between us, and have it pass back and forth, with each stepping down what they're doing—so that our relationship seems to grow closer.

He was going to write poetry (octallables) about the convent maiden. I sharpened my pen and first devoted myself to the writing of rich drama--short scripts, without deep meaning, but showing the magic of words.Then (?) "Flowers of Dreams", especially the posthumous diary, is becoming more and more formed-you must dare to write and be diligent in writing. We are pleased to see that great progress has been made. I wrote the play "The Petition" and had some moments of great happiness—I wrote it for a week, but it has been nearly a year since I conceived—it's a pity that I didn't write it in my own style, but adapted it to the taste of "The Middle School Student", And vote for that magazine.This script will be revised in the future.

The subject matter is wonderful—it is a song of words—degenerate, Verlaine—several poems have already been written—for several nights I stayed at my desk until midnight or one o'clock in the morning—and then , I fell asleep next to the pencil and manuscript paper, and when I had verses in my sleep, I hurriedly wrote them down; sometimes I even relighted the candles five times, and the verses produced in my sleep were the most beautiful. I'm only happy when I feel like what I've written.My first real play, I gave it to Louie—he was going to pitch for The Schoolboy—and I'm kind of sorry—the play is dead now.

In addition to the notebook I shared with Louie, I now had to have two notebooks: one in which I jotted down fragments of the novel one after another, and another in which I wrote down all the poems in draft, so as to always preserve what was taking shape. In the second notebook I would write down my present intellectual life and essays, all the most private matters, without any purpose. The passions of youth must be harnessed with haste. Every day I experience a series of exciting things, or I think all the winning cards are in my hands, or I get discouraged, and I regard myself as the stupidest poet and the most arrogant careerist.

I showed Albert the combined opera which I had imitated Coppet--my stuff was not the point at all, but instead of forgetting to try something else, I immediately imagined that everything would be the same.I was so afraid of writing bad verse that I couldn't even write a line. Now, I'm going to write a preface to our shared notes.Louie's idea was very moving, and indeed I was very moved - said to me: "Notebooks should not always be shared in this way, and whoever publishes an article in Le Maitre's magazine first leaves the notebook to the other. " i did it when i was fifteen

what a charming dream, Talk about glory in the dream. I pour it into my head thoughts of great men, Friends persuaded me to believe it. today i write this poem True or False: Wrong or right?It doesn't matter. I am happy when someone reads the poem, flatterer If you come again, you will not be accepted. I wrote the preface to the shared notes - I put all my emotions and my whole day into it.You should learn to save your energy in the future. Writing and thinking, it's just crazy, it hasn't let me go all day, and it has been chasing my dreams. At night, my mind is over-excited, and my dreams are very numerous, very clear, and very strong, and even after waking up, they still replace reality.

For example, last night I dreamed with anxiety that I was taking the Certificate of Education (first stage).I remember all those impressions, all the ideas caused by the feelings clearly, and they are more vivid than my actual high school entrance examination—however, I hardly have any direct feelings—on the contrary, I still remember the feelings during the actual high school entrance examination. new.All in all, this kind of hallucination is very strong. Once I wake up, I am almost convinced of the dream scene, and I can’t return to reality for a long time. As a result, I thought I was completely rejected by reality, and I couldn’t understand why I still studied philosophy. .

This is all the mystery that no one has ever seen. I read Usman's Upstream—thinking I'd find my book in it, but I saw with great pleasure that the two were not close. Rather, it is possible to write a work of literary criticism, which must be completely subjective and impressionistic.It's time to start writing—I'm not talking about the book, but about the impression it made on me. The only science is algebra.Algebra is the most brilliant and broadest creation of thought after art. It is as if, with a new sense, you are touching the unchanging absolute, the eternal mystery of reality.

And with art, it's like participating in it. Louis told me about his plans: to get a law degree, to serve in the military, to serve in the diplomatic service, then to be a consul: to leave for Jerusalem. Holy city Jerusalem!what!These future dreams are intoxicating.Now the indifference seems to be only temporary.We will regret it in the future, but now we hope to break through. must work.I am going to write down two of my dreams: the dream of the May night, and the dream of the Dominican. I reread the chapter on snakes: the more you read it, the more captivated and awed you are by the style.This is a gorgeous mosaic.

Louie's dream is not my dream.Such a mixture of listless charm and suave workmanship is hard to please.I love seriousness at work, something that builds up and tans you, something that makes you feel tense and hard in the high life. I have reached the age of twenty-three, which is the age of enthusiasm, and I want to use high-intensity and intoxicating labor to subdue my enthusiasm.Others go to dance, to feast, to have fun, but I just want to find the pleasure of solitude in a kind of monastic life; alone, absolutely alone, or with a few gray-haired Chartreuses The monks, a few ascetics, retired to a monastery in the countryside, a place of excellence and austerity in the mountains and mountains. I shall live in a bare nun, sleeping on planks, on mane-pillows, with a simple, thick wooden kneel-stool beside me, and a folio Bible always open on a trestle— There is an oil lamp burning all the time above, and I can’t sleep at night. In the frightening darkness, I frantically look down at a passage of scriptures and enter into a state of intense intoxication; wailing, and the midnight song of thanksgiving sung in one note by the monks on watch. I want to live an hour as if it were ten hours, losing the concept of time—keep an earthen pot by my side, full of bread and a herring, and eat when I’m hungry—after finishing my homework, whenever I feel sleepy, I sleep. I put on my sandals, my mountain hood, my white flannel gown, and my black silk sash, and there was a large oak table in the study room, covered with books. There is also a large sloped table with an open book that I can read while standing.There is a long row of books above my head, which is my entire collection.I want to read the Bible, Plato, Spinoza, Kant, Dante, Rabelais, and books of asceticism; Greek, Italian.I shall loose myself in science, and emerge astonished and exhausted, like Jacob after he has wrestled with God, but like him a victor. Once the flesh is unbearable, it rises up against this restraint, and is burned by desire, then let it be whipped and crushed by pain; or run like a giant in the mountains, pass through the jagged rocks, and keep running To the snow line, until you run panting, exhausted, physically surrender, and beg for mercy; or else, like a mad beast, rolling in the thick snow, in contact with the ice and snow , looking for some indescribably alien thrill. Isn't this kind of dream sweet? Everything around us is asleep, the windows open wide to the stars, and in the hot summer air there is the cry of a nocturnal bird, or the breeze rustling damp leaves while the night The wind is extremely light, like whispers of love.We were just the two of us in the cabin, soaked in warmth and excitement, feeling the caress of the intoxicating air, scented with beech forage and roses.How mysterious is this moment, how still is this night, something unheard of makes us cry, the soul seems to leave the body and disappear in a kiss. We pressed so close to each other, felt the same trembling all over us, sang the night of May with extraordinary words, and then, all words fell silent, and stayed where we were for a long time, thinking that the moon was in the middle of the sky, and our eyes stared absently at the same star, Let our tears mingle in our approaching faces, let our souls mingle into one supernatural composite. This spring, I am willing to talk to my star all night; from nine to twelve o'clock in the evening, I sleep or reverie, get up in the middle of the night, open the window, light eight candles, and then start writing.In this beautiful moment of intoxication, verses came one after another without calling out, so I blew out all the candles, leaving only a small light that I couldn't see, slightly illuminating my desk.Till morning, my mind swayed to the mournful and mocking song of the crow, and every time I heard it I must weep, and I watched the stars twinkle with love, and put the earth behind me.After I finished singing, I finished my excitement, and shed tears. The whole night passed, and the purple dawn appeared, and I went to sleep, and continued the sweet dream I started during the night watch in my sleep. One of the most frightening things is not knowing... I have no one to guide me, no one to point out, no one to comfort me. Not knowing whether the desired object is attainable by human effort--knowing nothing, not knowing sin and its cure. Wrestle alone with an incomprehensible enemy. ...it doesn't matter!This kind of struggle in the dark is really incomparable! ... (However, one must win more often and fight more persistently).The proud psychology often blows arrogant drunkenness on my face. This kind of fighting, when it doesn't make people admire, it can make people feel taller than usual! If I can understand other people, the people I love, whether they also endure physical torture like me, what price would I not pay? I couldn't believe it, but I thought I could see it in their eyes; but they wouldn't say such a thing so lightly: Just talk about me, and I didn't dare to say it, so some people think I'm too shy; in fact, I If it was talking, it would be too much to talk about, and I can't make fun of this kind of thing, I can see them laughing at it: No, they don't know what's going on. They don't understand this cyclical struggle, which is so exhausting that, even if it is won, it is exhausting.However, how proud you should be when you win the victory. Only you know the sweet feeling of admiration, and you think happily: "I was saved one day again." Childlike happiness: the goal I set, after four or five days …sometimes after a week of diligent work, it is finally achieved—to regain the purity and radiance of the complexion. But there is no truce, month after month, year after year, it is impossible to hope that this situation will stop... because winning is by no means an easy task! Because of this, in my book, I am finally willing to tell all the things that are pressing on my heart, to tell myself (if they don't understand), all my struggles, all my troubles, all my struggles. Deeply fallen, I feel that my shame is incomparable, even if Paul's cry: "I am miserable! Who can save this body of mine from death!" Compared with my cry to heaven Come on, it's nothing at all.With all my might I want to lash out at those who mock chastity as stupidity, and virtue as weakness: they think a libertine is more characteristic than a monk—I want to shout at them, Shut in the house to escape from the devil, what is the pain of dying from fever? After fighting, the strength is exhausted, and the person degenerates, just like dying.I think all the time, others have no desire to enjoy themselves, and it takes a lot of effort to feel a little palpitation, but you yourself have palpitations like hell, and the fire of desire burns all the way to your heart! And that's all right, sometimes pride blows your face into a kind of inexplicable arrogance reveling in the idea, and if you can win it, the fight is unnaturally magnanimous... But it has to be won. These and many other things I shall tell, and write, for those who suffer from the same evil, and who, as I do, think that they are the only ones who have suffered from it. (Flaubert's) description, read aloud again this morning, I couldn't help throbbing, like drinking strong wine.Dialogue between the Chimera and the Sphinx. Written in a carriage—alone at night. What a trick it takes to travel alone with at least four other passengers in the compartment!I am amazed that I did it, - thanks to Venus and poetry! Last night, thinking it was all over, I prayed long and hard to God to have mercy on me and protect us both.I deeply felt that if this happened, my life would be dead. Never had I grasped so deeply how passionately I loved her, and the strength of the delicate cord that binds our two souls together in a common love and a love for God. If this happens, I don't know what I will do, but I am afraid when I think about it, because I will drag her into my pain; however, this pain is unbearable just thinking about it , It is extremely panicky. But why?Is it not enough to know each other, and without a feeling of sympathy two souls can never love each other deeply, can never produce a sublime love which is ever increasing, stronger than all the passions which sprout yesterday and wither the next? , because that sublime love is mingled with the love of God, and by subtle habits the soul is inseparable from the love of God.Is it not enough to live fully in this love, to feel essential, and to see nowhere but to be deeply saddened? ——But why? Just because there are rules in the world, and all decent people must follow them, just because... oh!How could the people around us turn a blind eye and fail to see that our two hearts are connected, getting closer every day. I have often wondered what they were thinking; it was impossible for them not to see it, to feel the danger growing; so what did they rely on, what were their plans? —perhaps they thought it was a mere childish act, which would disappear of itself at the touch of rough reality!Why cover up——Misunderstanding hurts people more than the truth, because, for things that you don’t understand, the sadness caused by imagination is always greater than the actual situation. No matter which way I looked, I always saw myself overwhelmed by events that were out of my grasp and impossible not to happen. Life without you is unimaginable. Didn't you see that our two hearts are calling each other, and we are a pair made in heaven.If not, how could God have put us both on the same path: two people are so alike that one always thinks that he feels things with the other's heart.Is it not a sin to tear apart what God wishes to unite? A new plan emerges every day: It seems that I still need to prepare two notebooks—one to write real stories or narratives—(the collection may be called "Fragile Stories"), and the other to record short prose poems, My poems and some other revised poems can be included in it. I wrote the preface this afternoon.I have a lot in my mind, and it only takes a little time to write it out. I went to the Louvre.Leonardo da Vinci's portrait of Johann Baptiste, as if hermaphrodite, always looks disturbing and disappointing.I always felt disillusioned when I saw the "Yokonde", but when I left, her eyes were always staring at me, disturbing my mind.I saw her name: Mona Lisa, should write something about it. The subject of a teenager committing suicide might well be a novel for a novel: The teenager, still a child in everyone's eyes, who feels grown up (this must be explained, of course)—he produces He fell in love, but no one believed him, and made fun of him—seeing that others did not take him seriously, he was very angry and distraught, so he committed suicide to impose the seriousness that people refused to give him. . How intoxicating it is to read pages of youth that I really thought I had written, and to feel that my own life has fulfilled prophecy! Flaubert's "November" set a fire in my heart. "Sometimes I really can't bear it, I am swallowed by infinite desires, my heart is full of burning hot magma, I madly love some unnamed things, I regret those wonderful dreams, and I am affected by all kinds of desires. Temptation, longing for all the poetry and harmony in the world... "I haven't worn out life at all, but life has worn me out. My dreams are more tiring than hard work; a complete creation, not yet revealed, stands still and lives quietly under my life. I am a dormant hybrid, a collection of a thousand fertile principles, which do not yet know how to behave or what to use. They are seeking their own form, waiting for their own model." Just because I hugged the floating clouds tightly, My arms are exhausted. The dream was eating me, consuming all my strength, and blinding my eyes so completely that the illusion was always between my eyes and reality.I sit down to work, for hours at a time, and then a word, an idea of ​​an incoherent rhythm, flicks at first in my ear, then swells, lingers, grows stronger, until I My eyes moved from the book to the air, as if to follow this idea; then, I was intoxicated in a dream: I thought of the planned poem, my blood was surging in the illusory career, so I constructed a novel, and I witnessed the novel. The protagonist, his mannerisms: This is simply brilliant.This is how man lives a fictitiously tense life; ah!Compared with real life, it looks so pale. —Ellen, Ellen, I want to speak through you. The senses, as well as the mind, when excited and directed by a dream, show a force and intensity of the degree of enjoyment; Sensation: This feeling is sweet and pleasurable, but at the same time so intense that it becomes overwhelming.This is how I fall into a state of desperation when I look at the color of a new cloth; it is an indescribable color, like the flesh of an apricot;Listening to the peculiar timbres of some passages by Wagner or Schumann, it is as if you have discovered a strange world. You can’t explain clearly, and you can’t help but feel scared, as if your heart is shaking so badly that you are about to cry... This kind of tears are so sweet Yes, it makes you uncomfortable when it flows down, it seems to come from the heart. At Madame Esipov's concert, the cello music was so stirring that I felt Brondukov's bow on my heartstrings. The present is passing in the prospect of the future.I don't know if all my plans will come true, but when I make these plans, I always feel very sweet.If I really have the talent I dreamed of, I hope I can write a ruthless and sarcastic script in the future, and it must be so sharp that no one can stand it except the great genius.To write about a young man who believes in Utopia, he must be described as very ridiculous and at the same time very lovable. His personality is always out of harmony with his real life.It was necessary to allow common sense to prevail, and even easy-going and easy-going virtues, to ridicule the noble sentiments of this young man, and people could not help laughing at his virtues, and even felt angry.However, the scene must give people a strong sense of reality. Anyone who watches it has to admit that this is something that happens every day. When all are fallen, the virtuous lost are always out of place. Great lessons should be learned from it. There was an old man beside the young man.This old man represents (I don't like to imply) a very ordinary person. He converts everything into coins, and it is easy to spend them, but the sound of flicking is always wrong.The young man thought everyone was as honest as he was, and listened to all the old man's statements in good faith.The old man had a daughter; the young man thought it impossible for him to have a daughter, and his love was more intense.He thought himself very good, became noble because of his love, and when he committed suicide, he wrote a will and left a huge amount of property to the girl—but the situation was completely reversed.Involuntarily forced to be a happy man—with a fatally mediocre outcome—he was about to kill himself, but the gun failed: as he wrote his will, a tear fell on the powder pool.The father came in at once and married his daughter to him. The plot is fairly simple - it should be worked on. The father got the young man's property, and thought that everyone was like him, so he had to play tricks, and when he saw the young man fell in love with his daughter, he tried his best to sensationalize.His daughter did not like the young man at all, but liked a dissolute young man very much.The slutty young man and the father figure are especially shamelessly bawdy.It is disgusting for a father to let his daughter play, but he wants to influence her to act unconsciously so that the effect of the play is irresistible. The young man saw that the girl loved the dissolute man, and wanted to make a sacrifice—but the father only had money in his eyes, so he forced his daughter into the arms of the young man, and the girl was encouraged not only by the father, but also by the dissolute young man. Instigated by people.Whatever happens in the future, just let it go. My mother read "Dominique", and for a while later, I don't know what she did with the novel, who must have lent it to: Albert, Aunt Clare, Miss Schiller, more likely.The book is full of my comments, which everyone can benefit from: These comments must have opened my mother's eyes and terrified her--however, neither of us kept our eyes on it, and during our long conversation, my mother pretended to watch I don't see any resemblance between me and Dominic.We both avoided mentioning Madeleine's name for fear of confusing the meaning. What happened to the novel?What do others think?Dominique and Madeleine, my mother condemned, but I defended them vigorously, feeling that this was an attack on me and an attempt to limit my behavior in the future.My mother also read Werther: she studied the phenomenon so as not to be caught off guard.Of course, there are good reasons to remove a large number of my old books. If I don't cut them off immediately, things will definitely get out of hand in the end. What made it clear to me that my mother understood "Dominique" was that she read it without telling me—only so that I didn't see anything in advance. They thought that there was no need for Madeleine to come to Paris to see her brother-as for me, there was no such title at all. You fully understand, little cousin, that when you call me brother it is only an empty word you use to deceive me, and I have always been a brother in name only.However, I need you more than all of them, I stay away from you, and I live only in the hope of seeing you next time.But, I hear them say, if your visits bring joy to your "real brother," there's no need to come too often,--well, you're a brother in name only, with all the privileges of being a brother , and I'm a wholehearted brother... that's what worries them. right!The whole thing, perhaps, will end in the most ordinary way, and we will each get married—but after we get married? After: I figured that all was well from the public's point of view, and I got engaged to a woman I thought I liked. Since I still miss you from time to time, I think that by cutting the mess quickly and getting married as soon as possible, I can get rid of this thinking forever.Even if the first few days of marriage are wonderful (which is never possible), fantasy is always fantasy, and it must be shattered. After a few conversations, I will feel a gap between my wife and I, and I can't help thinking about our conversations together. .You tell me, I can find a woman like you, I don't think it is possible; even if I can find such a woman, can I find the memory of each moment, the memory of the common thought—— After all, it is these memories that make up nearly all of our lives; likewise, can I undo the extraordinary union of our two hearts—so tightly bound that what the one thinks, the other must know.And you, will you never miss me?What can I say?How to do it?This kind of marriage must be completely over. I clearly feel that the more she looks like you, the less I love her, because every resemblance will not replace, but show your face. Let's dream, okay, it's worth it.Dreams soothe the mind and make one forget their sorrows. Louis says he's found a subject: The Poet; that makes me jealous.I can't think of anything else, and construct many scenes of this poem based on my imagination. When I am not writing, I try to stimulate my senses or increase my knowledge: I hope that every minute will not be unproductive, and even pleasant wanderings must arouse in me new and indescribable sensations.In order to better watch the stars and the moon and their reflections in the water, and to watch the brilliant glow of the sky, I simply went down to the banks of the Seine to avoid the lights of the street lights that hindered me.Poetry is beautiful, but not practical.I ran into two sneaky people on the bank, so I had to pretend not to see them; Unsightly garbage on.Even so, the gentle gurgling of the river on the bank is very beautiful. When I crossed the bridge, I stopped for a long time to watch the sparkling lights of the moon iridescent and decorated with silver leaf.I looked at the river and squinted a little, just like now that I have learned to look at colors, I can only see colors, and lose the concept of form in the harmony of indistinguishable tones.I was motionless, staring at the waves, and soon became dizzy and ecstatic. I didn't know where I was for a while. I really thought I was standing on the bow of an English ship, watching the long light and shadow drawn by the sidelights on the water. I felt that someone was watching me, so I ran away quickly, but I was still intoxicated in this warm starry night, with tears in my eyes, singing Tchaikovsky's romantic songs loudly. A painting by Villette and the shepherd's song in the second act of "Tonhauser" give me a wonderful impression of spring: I think of Morte Fontaine, ah!Two more months, how intoxicating, to be able to look at the sky for a long time at the open window of hers, and follow a star, only to see that star seems to recede more and more, disappearing in the dizzying depth the sky. Moltfontaine, after Easter, I would like to take Louis with me. After the holidays, we rarely see each other, and our new poems and essays; we have not shown each other at all.We set out early in the morning—it must have been very hot in there, and we lay in the shade by the pond and talked for a long time.Then we went for a walk and got so excited and read something new - it was wonderful.I especially think of lunches on the grass, with laughter as a dessert.And maybe a fizzy drink to reminisce about last year. I'm back from the first show.Marie Laurent was leaving the stage to reenact the tragedy.After the intermission and the performance, the crowd surrounded Leconte de Lisle, all the literary critics were there; Rubbing shoulders and talking with them on an equal footing is not far off, and right now I am enjoying myself, passing by them, listening to their conversations, living in this literary atmosphere, just like being in my own environment. snort!See what's next! The enemy is attached to you, which is terrible, and there is no escape. So restless, always so wandering, searching, restless, pessimistic and hopeless, sometimes locked in your room... The enemy is with you... So panicked and didn't know what to do... ...Otherwise, it is infinite sadness, disheartened...the longing to be over once and for all. My head is weary and aching, and I see nothing; nevertheless, I have a great desire to climb some unattainable place, to know a great deal of things, to read all books, to master all science.The more weary the man, the greater the desire—it is impossible to go on like this. A story should be written around Formentin, where some old men lived: a Turgenevian novel—reflecting the impressions I got there. well!When will I have all day and all day?The continuous long days, devoted entirely to writing, rather than squeezed between two problems, always felt like catching up, could have done better. For the past three days, my mind has been so resigned, let base thoughts gradually take over, and I have neither resisted nor rebelled in the shame of my cowardice. So empty, so chaotic, I thought it was all over, and all the dreams of the future were also shattered in this cowardly depravity.oh!Lift your head up again! Flaubert's letters, the account of his life, especially the account of his youth, all this kindled a fire in my head.Always comparing myself with others, I realized my shallowness, and I was immediately discouraged, but I was depressed by my self-esteem and my unyielding ambition. Turning art into his life, his wealth, his ambition, dedicating himself to art as a sacred cause, isn't that what I have decided to do long ago? Well!I still remember when I was very young, when I was ten years old, I made up my mind not to love any woman, not a single woman, but to devote all my love to music, and to spend the night in love with music. I personified music and was proud of my ideal love—especially the day (I remember it very well) when I took the train to Uzez, passing near Fontainebleau, and saw fields full of daisies, snow-white The cherry blossoms and daffodils, so I thought to myself, in the future I will walk alone on such a meadow, at a bend in the stream, from the fragrance of love flowers, suddenly the dream melody flashes, turning into Beatrice She has a beautiful figure, wearing a white lily dress, and her harmonious breath makes me infinitely ecstatic. Well, always the dream, the supernatural and the otherworldly, the world of things as they are—displaces me and kills me—emptiness eats my heart and leaves nothing for the earth. As for my poor book, I am at a loss, and I am discouraged: as soon as the idea arises, it should be written at once, and as soon as it waits, it freezes.Here's what I'm going to do next year: Give form to ideas while they're hot. You should also develop the habit of not waiting for inspiration to write, but being good at using your work to inspire inspiration-this is what Flaubert did. 两个月前，我似乎没有换笔就有了灵感……总之，我希望再次同玛德莱娜见面的时候，又能燃起创作的激情。 吕克特和B·戈达尔的《夜的哭泣》这个动人心弦的题材，要找出贴切的旋律很难——我想这样诠释那不勒斯aquaioli（水渠——意大利文）的呼叫：“这不是水，而是爱情的眼泪！”这一切做起来很难，从迷人的旋律到痴呆，只有一步之遥。 我发烧了，梦见自己扎进深深的溪流中，夏日炎炎，万物仿佛热得昏睡过去，而岸边的灌木丛也不胜酷暑，纷纷垂落到你的头上。再不然，躺在床上睡不着，我望见星光灿烂的天空，“通过一轮秘密月亮的友好寂静”，我看见光波流动的天空下，沿着巨大楼梯的台阶，走下我认不出的绝妙的萨朗波，就好像走在高高的城楼上，前面长长行列的太监。 再不然——我不写作，还有别的事儿可做——数学就摆在面前，这种梦想缠着我不放。 还可以像《木乃伊的故事》开场中法老的女儿，月光照着喷射的香泉，在炎热的朦胧夜色中，几乎裸体的女奴们在跳舞，她们无精打采地旋转，扭动，或者如同戈蒂埃所讲的，她们将下颏儿长时间抵在胸上，“仿佛从中得到不知什么秘密的快感”，伴奏的音乐是弹拨的竖琴，声声动人心弦，节奏柔和而舒缓。她摆出勒费弗尔所画的费德尔的姿势；那姿势是我特别喜爱的，总浮现在我的眼前： 几乎裸着身子，躺在饰有镶嵌画、铺着珍奇透明纱的床上，眼睛失神地追逐一个梦幻，一副倦慵的样子，因为这夜晚太热，又有这音乐和舞蹈的缘故，还因为怀着对未知的爱，神思投进去，肉体也处于迷醉的状态。 春天来了，夜晚变得温煦，热天又要令我陶醉，还有梦想；我必须将它驱逐，才能够早起，准备打扰我全部快乐的一次考试。 这个福楼拜，真能醉人： 我读他的书信，心潮就涌动起来，要去旅行，去寻求陌生的新感受，去看一些地方和事物，学会其他几种语言，尤其要多多阅读。明年，我不考虑别的事情，一心要认识——学习希腊文、德文、拉丁文、意大利文，尤其要学好法文，以各种方法持续不断地习练，写作，阅读，观察。 我要了解巴尔扎克、狄更斯、斯丹达尔——还要了解别的事物，惟独我了解，譬如对我所爱的已逝去的人谈话的方式。 我开始给人伴奏；我展示自己，别人也认为我真的像个搞音乐的，以我伴奏的方式能感觉到这一点： 看样子我理解了我所弹奏的音乐。 Hey!当然是了，有那么点儿意思，音乐家，哼，还有诸如此类的名头。 what!神圣之火，正在把我完全燃尽，我要死去，死于神圣之火。我还说不清楚究竟是什么，大概是激情吧，是这种威力，接近美就像接近一件圣物似的要颤栗。 美所引起的战栗哟，正是你造就艺术家——我可怜他们所有人，许多人都不知道，那么多人不知道这种强烈的战栗是怎么回事： 它从你的头脑传下来，一直深入你的骨髓，把你丢在快感、迷醉和近乎上帝降临所引起的畏惧中瑟瑟发抖。“神，神来了。”这种欢悦一鼓翅膀，就把你带上理想和崇高的冰峰，比较起来，其他欢乐显得多么苍白乏味。 有些蠢货竟然说，美就应当可爱！ ! 算了吧，多么掉价的见面！ ! ! 有时我觉得，小说还在蠢蠢而动，几乎结结巴巴地要表达——心理学应当插进来，还要进一步参与——它应当变成理论性的，这一点是我的感觉，而不是领悟到了，不过，小说家（我倒愿意试一试）应当逐渐取消所有事实、所有人物，只留下一个人物，就像硝石库的一个病人——这种超验的玄想，恐怕有大量的事情可做；这完全是另一种类型的现实主义，也就是说，题材彻底脱离生活，变成一种实验的题材。 也许这样做行不通。 理想主义同现实主义一样，都和我没有什么关系。我所需要的是奇思异想，能从理想的顶峰，一下子跳到现实主义的边缘。 总之，大有用武之地。 独自同我的意念在一起——不知道是不是从我头脑里萌生的意念，但是好得很——这是莱布尼茨所推论出可能存在的东西，就好像意念是我们身外的存在体。 这好极了。 音乐使思想起伏变化。 这是对音乐的最好评论。 多么虔诚啊！ 好个路易，你说你的一个梦想，就是男扮女装去参加歌剧院的舞会；嗳！这是小菜一碟： 只要这样梦想，那我们就做个圆满。首先，希望是两个人——其次，不是去歌剧院，而是前往威尼斯，你扮成聪明伶俐的贴身侍女，我则扮成滑稽的小丑，两个年轻人又快活又胡闹；你男扮女装尽量娇艳，穿上短衬裙和美妙的褶皱衣裙，摇一把大扇子——我则一身轻快；特别酷，又放肆又潇洒，能把所有人都弄得晕头转向。我们俩都戴半截面具，我从篓子里往外抛彩纸屑，我们像发了狂似的，你挽着我的胳臂，整天在街上乱窜，边跑边笑，追逐冒险和奇遇——这一定充满美妙的诗意。而且，尤其夜晚，夜晚一定很迷人。我们跳上一只大游船，船上一盏盏红灯笼闪闪发亮，倒映在运河水中。 在全城节庆的喧嚣声中，我们乘坐的游船后面还跟着十二只游船。 在我们的船和随后两只船上，小提琴、大提琴和吉他演奏音乐，我们高唱星辰小夜曲直到旭日东升。你带那把小提琴，我拿上大提琴，也许我还要唱歌，也许还是保持沉默为好。我们只演奏最美妙的乐段，如舒曼的、他的《狂欢节》，这一直是我梦想在威尼斯聆听的，以及《希达尔戈》。再者，回去睡觉该有多可悲和愚蠢，我们就留在船上，驶过丽都饭店，再取海路离开那不勒斯（此处应为威尼斯），以便去看新奇的事物。 也许生活为我们保留了许多好东西。 格林的墓志铭是他最美的诗： 他爱布伦塔河畔的玫瑰。 从开始读福楼拜的书信，我就感到要去旅行的强烈愿望，还查看雷克吕斯的世界地图册，在地图上做起最美妙的旅行；我在地图上耗费了大量时间。 我读释迦牟尼，看到这样一句：“痛苦来自迷恋，醒悟者就会隐居，像犀牛那样。”可悲的哲学；要让人避免惟独能使人高大的痛苦。 我愿意作这样的诗： 黄昏降临，秋天暧昧的黄昏， 美人们吊在我们的臂上出神， 悄声说话，说些特殊的情话， 从此我们心灵便发抖而惊诧。 因为我们还要色调， 只要色调不要颜色！ 正是如此，珂罗画上的雾气，正是应当这样描写。这是梦中所见的暮色。 阿尔贝向我谈起达尔基，谈了很久——哦！认识这种人，同他们相互结识——成为他们的一员，就像加入秘密社团——真叫人发狂——现时固然美好，但是我要闯过去。 我不知道福楼拜是怎么说的，不过，也许还要加工。一个人要人为地刺激自身的所有感受，这种故事既庸俗又可悲，倒是会给人以极大的教育。 我会按照三年来所梦想的那样，将所有学识和戏剧性都写进去——一些不可能发生的事情——尤其是为了爱情，总的来说为了一切，心想这正是我应当感受到的，他的所作所为形同演员，以便体会这种感受——在自然中也如此，等等…… 将来动笔，必须一气呵成，现在先让它睡大觉。 今天早晨，事情看得更清楚了。首先，×××的笔记……等等，遗作——我准备写的，另外还有一本书，我想也是笔记，或者同一个人物，或者另外一个人物，我就题为。 这一切，只可惜在我的头脑里占据太多的位置。令我恐慌的是，不知道从哪儿找时间做这一切。 我在姨母克莱尔家，挨着安德烈·瓦尔克纳埃尔吃晚饭。面对美，世上还真有同我一样感觉的人！我难得有如此浓厚的兴致说话；我们一定非常谈得来。想到他，现在我后悔当时没有多注意自己的状态。我完全可以这样想，我还没有时间做什么像样的事儿，但是，我能做得很好的，就是完美地写出一些小短篇，随意剪裁。这是应当做的。 我不能容忍放荡。苏利-普吕多姆的诗句向我展示一个思想世界。 （人）这是毫不严肃 就发情的惟一动物…… 这种人，从来就没有感受过痛苦。oh!大家全是人，却又感到中间隔着鸿沟。 我的一个梦想，多少回憧憬，又多么鲜明，我常常当作真事一样相信。 一个精致的客厅，由小玛德莱娜和我主持。所有艺术家都来做客，首先路易总来，我也希望接待安德烈·瓦尔克纳埃尔。玛德莱娜待人十分热情，促使所有客人都能轻松愉快地交谈。我们身在客厅，对天下事了如指掌，能大大促进文学创作。 well!情况果真能如此——想想无需多少条件就能实现，而我们大家都会幸福。 那只乌鸦在嘲弄人，一直在小树林深处歌唱。 对，还要写——甚至不久就可以动手，写几页也要比写一页《爱伦》花费的时间少。我要写在于泽同贾拉·塞利姆度过的一夜，就像福楼拜在他的信中所讲的那样：“我在无限梦想的万分激动中度过了一夜。” 我重读自己写的一些稿子，就怪自己写出来；我必须学会无论讲什么，都用一种自己满意的形式。我要在于泽精审这种形式；文字不在多，短短几页，但是写得很完美，表达我的甜美的感受。我要找到颤栗的句子，窃窃私语，犹如暮色降临、晚风乍起时的溪边柳树叶；听来音色奇特，仿佛睡意惺忪的声音，恍若在梦中，只是依稀记得，而且借助梦境的神秘气氛，使无名忧伤的泪珠，在心房的密室中颤动。 我又见到于泽——今天下午——再次到处疯跑： 沿着溪流，到咖里哥宇群落，到牛泉，“la fon di biau”。有意累乏身体——再往远走——远远逃离城市——想到回去疲惫不堪，心中就乐不可支——身体被降伏——意志占据统治地位——因此，我回到城门口的时候，便又掉头，几乎是跑开的，总找理由再累一些，又一直跑到暮色已经扩展的泉边。 我返回来，精疲力竭——脑袋晕乎乎的，因为刮着大风而耳中嗡鸣——神思泯灭，肉体气力尽失，仅仅存留非常强烈意愿的感觉，其余一切都自消自灭。 我发现河边一个美妙的去处——我愿意到那里去看书和遐想——那是一个岛子的尖端，水流到那儿撞得破开而形成漩涡——溯流不远有一道堤坝，河水流泻下去，激起泡沫，发出喧响——泡沫和水汽在阳光下晶莹闪亮——一座带廊子的农舍被太阳晒黑了，两侧各长着一棵巨大的梧桐树，如果叶子满枝一定很壮观。 还记得我躺在河边的一块平板上——与水面齐平，洗衣妇常常在石板上捶打浸水的床单。 天气很热，阳光晒得石板滚烫——我的手探到水中——探得很深。我仰望着天空——不知不觉间时光流逝——我甚至忘却了遐想。在咖里哥宇群落，疾风一阵一阵扫荡而过，抽打着面颊，吹干了眼睛，在耳畔呼啸，吹得摇晃的岩蔷薇走路直绊腿——怎不叫人酩酊大醉。 我还要去瞧瞧那岩洞，我在那洞里看《勒内》，已是两年前的事；这次只看了几页《斯泰洛》便离开，只因风太寒冷了。 我没有幻想破灭之感。 我不再受到触动当即记述自己的感受。在分析激动的心情时，思想就分神，便煞了风景，破坏了那种感受的魅力。 最好要一心一意去捕捉感受，要体味的愿望越强烈，捕捉的力度也就越大，等事后再让想象力将当时的醉意照搬过来，以便描述。 我有感觉，这就足够了，我将感受埋在记忆中，恰恰为了时间一到就写出来。在激动的当时，在迷醉中是写不好的；要回到自己的房中，夜间写作；这样，周围的事物都处于黑暗中，由想象力使之重新活跃起来的形体，在黝黑的背景衬托下，就看得更加鲜明了。 音乐有时吞没我，像汪洋大海。 芭蕾舞剧的咏叹调，一直萦绕在我的心头。 经受夜晚的战栗之后，还应当经受其他所有战栗： 黄昏的战栗、清晨的战栗、中午的战栗、冬季的战栗、黑暗的战栗，等等。领域大得很。 我去观看了《杜朗和杜朗》的演出，这出戏看着简直受罪： 这是所有老手法的堆砌，市民老场面的翻版，改头换面，硬是扮演一个陌生的角色，装作理解了那些跟他交谈的人，却以为他们是针对另一个人讲的话。 走出剧院时我就琢磨，在演出的大量剧目中，独特者何以寥寥无几，那么多作者中，何以没有一个敢于并善于闯闯陌生的世界，而不去一味走可悲的老路，不去无休无止地变相重复著名喜剧作家的台词，就像在王宫剧场演出的这出戏，整个第一场，就是《没病找病》的乏味的模仿，至少还有三场是从《贵人迷》中搬过来的： 那个醉心于贵族的市民，认为他赠给××夫人的钻戒很平常，而那位夫人却以为是另一个人赠给的。 看完戏出来，我不禁陷入沉思；这些剧令人难以置信，倒人胃口，向所有人表明，这一桌饭菜平常得不能再平常，令人作呕；这些剧之间的差异，仅仅是人人熟知的素材不同的组合。 Well!写一部作品，指出这一点，挖苦所有这类剧作，一下子堵死这条路，谁也休想在这领域继续耍老把戏，还让市民观众，看《杜朗和杜朗》发笑的傻帽，进入剧本制作的秘密程式；边自我嘲笑边解释剧本如何炮制；将作者放在工作台上讲解，同演员一道编排；就像在评论性杂志上那样，打消市民老伙计侵入经理舞台制造的幻想，指出引人发笑的话究竟是什么货色。snort!这种讽刺，如霏霏冷雨，什么都能溶解。 指出（不过，这么做未免刻毒）喜剧就在人的生活中；所有人都扮演一个背熟台词的角色，让《波斯人信札》中那两个滑头登台表演： 两人事先都编好了要讲的话，好显得聪明风趣。 就应当将这样两个人搬上舞台，看他们表演。正是他们两个，杜蓬和杜朗们，他们要沽名钓誉，而且达到目的；编排情节，表现两个人应邀去参加晚餐会，练习自己的角色——再表现这次晚餐会——女主人也在演习——唔！表明这一切是多么虚假矫情。 他们会产生极为显著的效果，谈起一出剧，对方不信而要求当场做，他们就假装即兴发挥。转瞬之间，就应当做出来——还必须表现这出剧如何排练，如何演出。 但愿我能够（唔！必须工作，精力充沛）另外还写一出典型的喜剧，绝不采用以误会制造出奇效果的场面——而是仅仅以货真价实的智慧引人发笑。但愿我能写一出典型的正剧，其他体裁也如法炮制。 在所有舞台上轮流演出戏剧，喜剧、正剧、法国人的剧，等等，还没有处理过的作者或者诗人的那种类型，让他在那环境中充分表演，时而可笑，时而讨人喜欢，但始终是虚幻的——既荒诞又始终真实。 但愿我能放手写难以置信的最荒诞的故事，涂上现实的虚假色彩。 真实生活的人物，完全如实写出来，绝对没有什么意思；必须删除，抽掉他与别人相同之处，从而塑造出一个理想的人。 “艺术作品，”丹纳写道，“旨在表现某种主要而突出的性格，要比实存对象的性格更完全，更鲜明。为此，艺术家就先在头脑里形成这种性格，再根据自己的设想改变实存的对象。” 我想最好创造出一个多重而多变的人，艺术家的人物，超出于市民的人——代表所有人，所有从这永恒类型的人派生出来的人；代表真诚的艺术家、怪诞的艺术、乌托邦派的艺术、理想主义艺术家；始终是同一个，甚至连名字也不更改，然而又有无穷的变化——此人生来就同所有人不一样——艺术家或者要当艺术家的人。情感教育；在舞台上可能十分出色，非常适合于戏剧。 想成为艺术家的人，感受各种各样的激情，并为此变成恋人（假的），以便了解什么是爱情，到了晚上，他就讲述他的恋情，可是，这种爱情可能变得特别平淡，他就要添加些怀疑，引起点感情波澜（始终是假的），臆想出各种莫须有的缘由，怀疑自己的情人是否诚心，而且不由自主地极力相信所怀疑的事情——最后，他还要感受嫉妒的感情冲动，特意让对方欺骗，自己就感到变成了奥赛罗——如此类推。这样的艺术家，应当嗤之以鼻，应当嘲笑之，因为，他身上的一切都是有意做假（他不是这么想：“我感受到什么？”而是：“我应当感受到什么？”）。 突然，我仿佛在一道撕开的幕布的后面，隐约看到由《人造天堂》这几行文字唤起一首长诗、一出没有尝试过的戏剧： “这本书最富有戏剧性的部分，就是他谈到他的意志必须做出超人的努力，以便逃脱他自己不慎堕入的地狱。” 我看到了爱伦的经历，借用过来一种结局，在他的全部日记之后公布；在这种结局中，我要表明他认识到积极而实际的生活，是惟一好的生活，他一直同自身搏斗，以便挣脱当初他自己呼唤来的梦想。令人迷醉的梦想，他的心灵感到无比甜美，就再也离不开了——摆脱这种神秘主义，要么回到平淡的生活中，要么投身狂热的爱德里。 主啊，可怜可怜我吧。我感到太迟了，我的力量消亡了。可怜可怜我吧，把我从肉体的折磨中解救出来。 oh!感到自己的体力和勇气，随着意志缓慢垮下来而逐渐消逝；感到自己是个有作为的人，却眼看自己的一生，溶解在过分卿卿我我的靠不住的情欲中。走在人生的路上，脸上总挂着微笑，交谈，说笑，扮演自己的角色，谁也没有意识到心灵的这种垂危： 心灵感到在死去并完全死去。还继续自己的凄苦的研究，感到时光在狗苟蝇营中流逝；消失在日益扩展的黑暗中，就像一个人眼前似乎还有百年，却想着也许明天就全完了。 oh!完全死去！怜悯的主啊，我这可怜的头脑里，有多少事物在歌唱。 哪管让我大吼一声，让别人听见！ 然而，人世虚伪到了极端可鄙的地步，别人不会明白我为什么死去，因为像我这样深感奴役之苦的人，是要受人谴责，而得不到怜悯的。可是，噢！那些人该是多么可怜啊，他们肉体中就带着奴性这个精明的敌人，因而无法逃脱，就是感到这敌人啮噬他们的肉体、心脏和灵魂，也不能够自卫。 主啊，可怜可怜我吧！ 早晨我起床的时候，脑海里就仿佛弥漫着凄苦的大雾；在思绪迷茫的状态中，一种满噙泪水的昏沉之感令我麻木。昨日的歌声，余音在我的耳际缭绕，犹如渐息的回响；在沉沦的男子气概的空虚中，我不免潸然流下痛苦的眼泪，对我的罪孽的恶心之感也升到我的唇边。 听到盲人和穷苦人歌唱春天和爱情的浪漫曲，是最凄惨不过的事。 新季节哟来临， 寻找我的美人， 寻爱直到幽林。 他们在从未经历过的这类故事中，似乎寻求虚幻的安慰。 我的上帝啊，这一切多么虚假，歌唱爱情和春天的人，正是那些冻得瑟瑟发抖、要讨一块面包吃的人。这些不幸者，他们哪里知道，像他们所歌唱的这种爱情，是天底下最可怜不过的事： 莫冬的牧歌。这表明我们所有人的境况： 我们沉陷在不幸中，已经没到脖颈，还在欺骗自己，瞻望一个幸福的影子，殊不知这种幸福，假如我们真的得到，那可能是比我们的不幸还要令人厌恶的东西。 寻找我的美人。 寻爱直到幽林。 oh!若是能说出儿童撕破嗓门喊出的这些感情悲歌中，所包含的全部辛酸有多好，他们的声调就使人超越现时，梦想那荒芜的家园的种种惶恐不安。 里什潘在他的《乞丐歌》中谈到手摇风琴，就很好表达了这层意思。 我可以在《生活的喜剧》中再讲一讲，增添讽刺的意味。 应当写霍尔拜因的《亡灵之舞》那样非常单调、又显示一种狂放不羁的抒情。 “我来到街头——街上人人高歌，或者念歌词，品评别人——人人追逐幸福，嘲笑别人的虚荣心——唉，这情况千真万确。每个人都追逐他认为是惟一真实的幸福。” 剧中要有耍把戏的、商贩、恋人、游荡者、诗人、艺术爱好者、瘾君子、空想主义者（政治经济）、书斋里的博爱者、修士、自杀者、妓女、窃贼、哲学家和思想家、佛教徒，以及为爱情流泪的人，“她透过泪水微笑。” 我出门上街时，就仿佛听见这首虚荣之歌——它概括了人的全部生活。 我还以为自己死去了，一整天我都恍若走在雾中，哀悼我的已故的气力，为我本人服丧。 我觉得不可能重新振作起来了，因为，我长时间奋力瞒着所有人；然而我有一种明显的感觉，一句友善的话，就能在奋斗中助我一臂之力，不过，本来就应该离开这生活，走出这个天地的房间，只因这个天地总是画给我看迷我并害我的形象，总是把我的思想推进泥潭里挣扎。 “把我拉出泥坑吧。” “救救我们吧，主啊，我们快要死了！” 我想在春天的夜晚，也许我永远再也听不见我心灵歌唱希望了，因而黯然神伤，就好像无边的悲哀袭来。 现在我又抬起头来，为第一次胜利而骄傲。仅仅四天，所有梦想、所有狂妄的抱负、所有希望就重新挺立起来了。 在近乎经历的梦幻中，我看见未来的日子，一天一天从我眼前经过，真是眼花缭乱，就像撕下来的一页页日历，时而忧伤，时而辉煌，唔！时常，更往往是辉煌的，因为在我看来，忧伤本身就是伟大而富有创造力的。 我事先就目睹了我的生活，我再从梦幻中醒来的时候，就认为生活是梦幻，梦幻也是现实。 我在约恩-朗贝尔家又见到安德烈·瓦尔克纳埃尔。他满腹疑虑，喜爱文学又无力创作。我很希望他能证明情况恰恰相反，可是他的心死了，想象力也一样。他面对空白纸坐着，不知道将言语的珠玑陈列在什么“基面”上。我对他说，缺乏题材是我无法设想的，这是因为人总停留在自身。 要用多大的笔力，才能描绘出心灵的这种荒芜： 这颗心灵感到了空虚，而渴望又是无限的，心有余而力不足；它觉得自己是为感官的生活而问世，它身上的热爱文艺的出奇优雅的感觉，由一些读物唤醒，但总归还需要外界事物的翼助，需要外界的刺激，才有感受而产生共鸣；意识到这一点的心灵该有多么痛苦啊。我的整个正在于此。但愿他能写出来，或者同他一起写，实在不行就给他写出来。在受矫揉造作刺激而干涸的心灵的垂危中，现在它轮廓初现，相当喜人，一副温柔而忧伤的样子。我尤其看到了它的轮廓。我要讲述我是怎么写的，怎么让主人公写一部分，让他跟我谈论，就像我跟安德烈谈论一样。 what!这一切我看到了，想现在就动笔。 我一生的事业聚拢起来，准备就绪，完全是一个整体，我不可能怀疑，一定会看到它完成。一个独一无二的人物，多变，不可捉摸，怪诞或者感人，此人天生与众不同，或者天生不愿意同任何人一样，是个艺术家、创作者或者文艺爱好者，为人坦率或者做作，心灵的生活着迷于玄想，探索生活是什么的一个人的故事。 全部设想、全部写作提纲，都聚拢在昼思夜想的《爱伦》周围，而且还不断地汇集，以便成功地推动未来的神秘论，因为，惟独神秘论，才能安抚这颗要超然物外，寻求更为真实、更能灵犀相通之物的心灵。 我深深感到要写出来的所有欲望，以及看着一生蹉跎过去的全部绝望，都赋予我的爱伦；因此，出版他的笔记之后，我还可以推出他的遗作，并且让他在日记中就透出口风，从而引起兴趣，让人对值得关注的一种性格产生幻觉。小阿尔特妮丝，我给你写的俄罗斯诗歌、流浪的犹太人的全部的诗和计划中的诗歌、研究的读物、追求的悲歌。 然后，我再用《爱伦》序言所署的笔名，写，市民的大诗篇（措辞并不表明思想），我看人生活就像吃喝一样，是本能的行为，思想并不感到不安或询问，而对面，另一个人，那个痴迷者，那个狂热者巨大而多变的形象，寻求人生所能给予的更多的东西，并因此感到痛苦，时而是路德（另一个则是爱尔福特的修士），时而是斯维登堡，时而是帕斯卡尔，时而是爱伦……还有许多人。我将通过灵魂转生的神秘纽带，只塑造他们当中一个。 再者，剧本的梦想——写空想主义者（不是作家，也不是艺术家）的剧本，应当勾划出来，因为情感的教育，整篇我都看见了，要全力感受的那个角色，人为地煽情，传递这种激情，也许是同一个人，也许联袂做戏的两个人，传到第三者身上，有演员、准备好的台词，是大型喜剧，事先背熟的谈话，完全准备好的机辩。 在情感教育的剧本中，我清晰地看到那精彩的一幕： 他要感受一下嫉妒的滋味。 第一幕： 佯装的爱；他爱一位非常庸俗，但是迷人的姑娘，不可能有诗情的浪漫。 第二幕： 佯装的嫉