Chapter 4 1890

Writing...how?I am happy. I am afraid of forgetting.I hope that my happy memory can survive in my heart beyond time.When bored in the tomb, it would be great if I could re-live my life uninterruptedly: just as if in my sleep at night, I could faintly feel the bitterness and happiness that are already far away. No matter how uncomfortable it is, so is the memory of pain.I am afraid of forgetting.On these pages, I will hold back, as preserving the fading fragrance of dried flowers can remind you, I will hold back the memory of my passing youth, so that I can recall it later. I talked to her today and told her about my beautiful dreams and wonderful hopes.Today I get it, she still loves me.

I am happy... what should I write?I wrote it because I was afraid that I would forget it. And all of this is only in my memory. The memory of the past may last beyond the grave. Call on Verlaine. My great-aunt Briançon was bedridden, so ill that she was almost unrecognizable.The head on the pillow was disfigured, bloodless, but not pale, but sallow.Amazingly, she was like my grandmother now: her childhood features reappeared, deformed by life and driven away by the pain of death.She looked at me blankly, and I stood there not knowing what to say.At this moment the nurse leaned over and shouted into her ear: "This is your grandnephew, madam. You don't recognize him? He is M. Gide."

The great-aunt didn't understand, and just repeated: "Monsieur Gide... Monsieur Gide..." Then she suddenly exclaimed: "Oh! Andre! Andre, it's you!" I saw her hand He moved feebly, wanting to take my hand.So I took her hot hand, and held it tight, as if I could express my affection to her; she took my hand, perhaps in return, for I heard her murmur "Oh! Andrei! My child, my poor Andrei! . . . " She tried to speak, but was too weak to speak.Seeing this kind of wanting to show intimacy but not being able to, I couldn't help crying. Then, I had a strong idea to shout to her: "I love you very much, great-aunt! . . . " But she lost her mind again, her eyes were fixed and she couldn't see.I dare not speak, therefore, lest I disturb this soul which may be longing for something better.I drew the curtains so that nothing would disturb her peaceful sleep.

Funeral of Aunt Briançon. I won't talk about this kind of thing, because if I have to write it down and analyze it, this emotion will thank the flower of spontaneous true love. Besides, the impression is not very strong.My consciousness sent me too many impressions as it should have, and it couldn't catch me for a moment. It was, however, painful to see Aunt Charles weeping, and it was more painful to see her weep than my own.I would like to honor her with sorrow; but there is always a thoughtful smile on the corner of my mouth.Now that I think about it, what prevented me from having a strong reaction was that I didn't feel alone, and I was too focused on the people around me.So I would have liked to be alone and see the peaceful corpse of my great-aunt (that's an ugly word).The first dead I saw.Only then will I shed tears and my mind will wander.

Pierre-Louis was present, and his thoughts were gentle, which I understood: he wanted to keep our friendship clear and strong even in the hour of sorrow.I felt he was superior to me; more casual, and he had no intention of making it clear in his own mind.Of course, after seeing Andrey, I wondered what emotion was, and wondered if I loved anyone... But it must be said that my heart was always trembling with pity, oh!Have infinite mercy for all the sad things that happen to me. If I were alone, I would hug this little maid beside me, and it breaks my heart to see her cry so much. However, when I think of all the attendees of this funeral, I have vivid impressions, and I imagine them all dead, lying one after another in this coffin lying before me; and it seems to me that it will never be possible to hear laughter: they Must weep for all eternity—broken in anticipation, for their own funeral, or someone else's, someone else's, lovingly loved.

Heard a punchline...in the Bible...don't know where. "We brought nothing into this world, so we should take nothing away." Albert was there too.I thought he was well behaved, beyond words, and I had a feeling for him, and a pity for his troubles; a feeling which, if fully released, would make him happy. Mr. Jacob Keller and I walked the funeral procession for a long time.I talked about sad and beautiful things about death. I have always had the vague feeling that I have passed on my enthusiasm to others, but in them it is not the holy fire.Except of course Pierre.I tried to warm them up, almost thinking they had my level of enthusiasm and guts.

That's it, Jacob's coming in, and I see him writing mediocre. André Valkner would write very well if he wrote, but he had no urge to write, and he was content to read other people's works.Leon Bloom is not good at writing, he wants to seek, explore, more than smart but not individual.And the Fuzzes, the imitators Mendès so cunningly crafted that it is difficult to tell which is the student's and which is the teacher's.Deruane, the errand drove beautifully, and his humble tone was very sincere, which I liked.But I was alone, facing the bankruptcy of my hopes. Yet my zeal was too strong, my conviction too naive, to be happy with it all, not to believe that I had failed.If I had been a little wiser, a little more talented, and above all a little more flexible, with a disposition not to express myself--then I could have started a magazine with Louis alone, or almost alone, with several people. The role of this joke, so that no one will be aware of it... But, this joke is disgusting to me, and it is impossible to sustain it.

It's so annoying that my self-esteem keeps getting all sorts of tiny injuries.Not everyone understands what I want to be and what I'm going to be, and it seems to me that others don't have a premonition of what my future career will be, and it's ridiculous that I put up with that. By Madeleine's side, I became more and more sensitive—I cared about everything: for a word, for a look I expected but didn't feel, my heart ached; but for a smile, for a caress, And ecstatic like a child.With the slightest breath, I trembled, completely disarmed. At night, beside my panting uncle.She gave him soup and I supported him—our hearts met in mutual pity, and we felt our hearts melt—pain sanctified the process.

Then, our hands were tightly held together—so tender that I almost fainted. It's a strange thing, pain always brings us together - first Papa's death, then a long separation on vacation in La Roque, then Luciane's departure, before all that together in mental anguish, and now My uncle's bedside. In an admirable pity, in a common adoration of that which is beyond us, our love gradually sanctified and grew. The same goes for the religious impulse, always communicating with our souls. There is also a strange feeling that Anna's soul is attached to her body again... Ugh!In La Roque, I entered the room of the dead, who were becoming more and more inseparable, and found her kneeling in prayer at the head of the bed—in the black kerchief that Anna used to wear,—hands folded, head bowed... She He heard my footsteps, so they didn't stop because of me.I already felt that she was praying for me, so I stepped closer and stood beside her and prayed for her—our prayers intertwined, and I felt that we were both comforted by each other.and after!what!Tearful kisses!

It is best to write casually. However, I no longer do this, because the phantom of the work is lingering.I put everything in a subordinate position.Gone is the happy period when I just wrote without any scruples, and at that time thoughts burst into my head and seemed to be automatically thrown onto the paper. Now, it's all in order: purposeful, all coming together at this point... Farewell, go with the wind and not worry about lost verses! Still, it should be watched; spring has just been born, and my heart is already in turmoil, and I feel as if some unknown ecstasy is coming--new tones may burst forth.

The whole body felt a kind of uneasiness, irritated to the extreme, so that I went out to go out, I didn't know what to do, wandering back and forth from the desk to the window, longing for the vast wilderness, remote and strange, looking at the attractive winding valley , pleasant flowery meadow. my Lord!Before a leaf has come out, spring has already messed up my size, what should I do, ah!Purity is of course good, and I hope so—huh!Besides, what are you afraid of! Yet I was on fire all over; I was burning away in my dreams. Lord, what you ask of me is probably still impossible, right? Until when is it a head?I'm going to fight until when is the head? ——What about in the future?How will this end?I sometimes wonder if this kind of persistent chastity is the most depressing form of vanity...and, Lord, what a price it will cost? But what?How to do it?Just thinking about everything else makes me sick. When I was a child, I was very young, and I was not yet human, but I also had a little insight. At that time, I thought, I will never have a lover in the future, and I will dedicate all my love to the sound of harmony—I fantasized in front of the organ The night of love, intoxicated in dreams, almost felt the phantom, like Beatrice in the clouds, like a woman, very pure, wearing a sky blue pleated dress, shining with faint starlight. Nothing more.She is the only one, I think she accepts all my warmth. How silly of me to think only of the soul! From an early age I was already living a dream; my soul out of my body—it was wonderful indeed, a dream of such a beautiful thing.But now, I have completely separated the two, and I can no longer control them: body and soul, each going its own way.The soul yearns for a more chaste tenderness—while the body wallows in a puddle that I can't even explain. Therefore, sometimes I am disheartened and do not know when I will find peace. Or physical sharing. I hate and get close, and especially hate these words whispering in the ear, these coarse or elegant tones, the voices of ghosts or mermaids—I hate these!I hate all of these—(However, the distance is the opposite, it is infinite pity)... Therefore, when walking on the street, I left the sidewalk and paved road, and my steps were very hurried-I saw them turning around, walking back and forth from a distance... Their suspicious actions and words could not help but arouse my strong emotion. Curiosity - I'd love to know. That was two years ago; and for the first time—and only once—because, now that I’m paying attention, I walk away from them. She was singing a sad song, with a hint of mockery, but very gentle, with a very thin voice, quite lingering... I walked past her, she turned around, got very close, and gestured, But the singing didn't stop--for the first time in history, the first night of spring, the air was so warm;So she giggled, and another loitering nearby cried out, "Don't be afraid, my handsome lad!" The impression was so strong I thought I was going to pass out, the blood rose to my face, flushed with shame—ashamed of them—and tainted even by hearing their words. My temples were pounding and buzzing, and my eyes were blurred with tears.I escaped. And yet, I will always remember the song, the voice on the High Street—the figure singing under the lamplight—and that enchanted spring night, my hot, amorous tears, and the mockery female laughter.I'll always remember: there's an oddly poetic quality to it. I write these things this evening, because the seasons are the same, the air is the same warmth, and everything helps me remember.Played with Albert during the day, and then I came back alone, as if I was drunk and ran like crazy, humming the above-mentioned song-it felt like flying-like becoming huge.There is no moon in the sky, but the stars are bright.Although there were no clouds in the sky, it began to rain lightly, and the rain was warm, almost like dew. The summer dust was wet and scented the air. I live in waiting.Never dared to start anything again.I mustered up the courage to say to myself from time to time: In another two months, let's see how I work!I'm going to devote all my time to Ellen.O these long days wrestling with the work!Their shadow haunts me to the detriment of my present work. My work clogs up my head and tosses in it; I can neither read nor write; it is always between the book and my eyes.This is a disturbing thought that cannot be tolerated.Sometimes I get so angry that I just drop it all, drop it all at once, cancel the course, send everyone away, turn down requests for a visit, and shut myself up "as in a tower" in order to write my Visions... But I can only do this by entering a strange, unexperienced atmosphere.My senses must be disorientated, or else I will fall back into the ruts I have traveled, into reveries of recollected memories.My life had to change, and there was nothing around me to suggest that there was something else in this world.A fantasy written in the Absolute. But where?The small house of dreams, in the Caucasus, in the Dauphine?I also think of a small open-air house in Paris, but it is still too close to the bustle of the city to be anonymous, and my thoughts are always on the alert... Now, maybe I will go to Morte Fontaine for a week. One thing is for sure, in the twelve to fourteen days, I left all the lessons and all the fetters. Now my thoughts are extremely tense, and I am really worried that when the time comes... I will collapse again, and I will be depressed. "Ellen" should be done. The Exams of André Walter. (Start concentrating notes now.) On Narcissus. As for André Walter, the lack of conclusions is puzzling.First of all, a "different text" version must be produced, and I have confidence in "Andre Walter's Notes". To work your ass off, to do it all in one go, and to let nothing distract you is the real way to achieve unity in your work.Once written, the manuscript is placed in front of you, and you have to review it desperately. You must read it greedily, like fasting for a period of time, because you need to understand the whole picture.All kinds of thoughts will be active again.It must be left to itself; soon one idea will take over; then write again.During the writing period, all reading should be stopped decisively.Readings cause me great confusion, and all kinds of thoughts are excited in my mind at the same time, but none of them can dominate, or can not dominate for a long time.Furthermore, being so active in thinking makes me feel strongly that they are all relative.The thoughts you get caught up in during writing must be unique.Be sure to think that you are writing in the Absolute. Return from the Great Chartres Mountain. In the canyons the dusk rose with the mist, but the rocks of the summits were still lavender-lit and trimmed with the brown of the cedars--ridges, cracks--toned softly and sharply.The forest in the twilight is particularly deep.Jianxi heard the sound but could not see it. However, we left the small valley, once again condescending, and the whole valley can be seen again-a dazzling glow.The plains were bathed in the peaceful golden light of the setting sun.The vision widened, and the brilliant sky light dimmed.The mist quivered for a moment, turned purple for a moment, and then all was quiet again, and the field fell asleep to the evening song of the frogs. My eyes follow for a long time, also disturbed by spring fireflies, dreamy flight in the gray sky. "Talk! empty talk! all empty talk!" ("Hamlet") I'm still clumsy: clumsiness is the only way to be able to be. .Yesterday I spoke to Albert about my plans for this book, and my will was weakened.I should learn to take myself seriously and never be complacent.If only my eyes were more active and my face less variable.Wish I was serious even when I was joking.I hope I don't hear people laughing at every joke they make.I wish I hadn't adopted this disinterested geniality with everyone.I wish I could say something astonishing and appropriate, and at the same time not expressive.Be especially careful never to compliment two people in the same way, but to "tailor" each person, giving up the measure only when it is intended. Also, when I was alone again, I had to be good at keeping my feelings spontaneous, always more sensitive—without the bitterness of an unwarranted awakening. I finally began to understand that what I was supposed to call "friends" were pages.  … So I never gave myself up (and fully consciously), but still enjoyed the fascination of feeling free, as if without restraint.We must be good at maintaining a multiple personality, so that according to the surrounding induction, we will never always reveal the same kind.To maintain the feelings of several selves, and these selves also go hand in hand. Biggest advice: To have the best relationships, be kind to people. As I write this, I am a little scared. This strategy in relationships can be described as... The two Wiedermeers took the Baccalaureate, and George passed; I don't care about that, and I'm not ashamed to write about it, the other result would be inconceivable. What interested me was this young man, who was almost a child, small, with a pale face, a stubborn chin, pale lips, and low hair that fell down to his eyebrows.He takes his time and doesn't even provide a list of authors for the reference material.The examiner sent him to write, and I gave him a piece of paper to list with him.He answered all questions terribly.He was the last to take the exam.I pretended to accompany George, but at the turning of the stairs I hid myself; they went out without seeing me.I went upstairs again and saw that the examination room was almost empty. Yet he passed.He threw himself into his mother's arms, then into his sister's arms.Both women were wearing heavy filial piety, waiting there trembling.I like him very much and want to talk to him.I said a few words to him, and he smiled at me to express his thanks.He looked pretty when he was happy.The three of them went home along the uphill main road, and I wanted to see him, and I saw them off for a long time.Then I walked home, but my heart was very sad. This notebook does remember well, and the day I'm going to start writing again, I've got to sort out my overcrowded mind; I'm waiting to do this, to shake the whole dust, there's a lot of empty time, A protracted cold, convalescence, and during convalescence, my incessant curiosity subsides a bit, and my only thought is to rediscover myself. For two months I haven't had a moment for a monologue.I'm not even selfish anymore.I don't even exist anymore.Full confession, from the day I started writing this book... Morality. First point: a moral imperative. Second point: This morality aims at ranking things, and using the lowest to get the main.This is the ideal strategy. Number Three: Never lose sight of your goals.Never favor the means. Fourth point: See yourself as a means, therefore, never think of yourself above the chosen end, above the work. (There is a flaw here, the problem of choosing a work and freely choosing this work. For expression. But then again...can you choose?) Consider his eternal blessing: selfishness. The main character shouldn't even think about his Yongbok.He sacrificed his life for others, risking eternity in hell; for performance. Morality. Don't worry.Only matters. Don't show his inner essence too hastily out of vanity. Therefore: Do not seek existence purely from the vanity of appearance, but exist because of this.