Chapter 5 1891

Blow up, north wind - run, storm. The wind blows my garden, sending out bursts of fragrance. "Song of Songs" A volume of historical papers given to Madeleine. Received four bound books from Perrin Publishing House. This evening was too clumsy to insist that Madeleine read my book overnight--she refused, evidently having a presentiment of the problem which she could no longer put off, and she would never read it until I left. Forget it - I'll do it another way. Why don't you go into exile!Cough, or a foreign girl! Re-reading The Living Sacred Thing, to no avail. My dear, we're not really a couple yet!

Read "The Woman Who Breaks In". "If, on that day at least, you saw the things that belonged to your peace! Now they are invisible to you." (The Book of Lucia, Chapter XXI.) Read my Bible. "False Innocence," performed at the Odeon, was underwhelming.After the show, I accompanied André Valkner back by car.It was just after midnight when we reached the Parc Monceau and got out of the cab to chat and look around.We walked along the park fence, came to a door that was still open, slipped in, and tasted the joy of wandering: wandering along the avenues shining with hoarfrost, icy ponds and tall trees around colonnades Towering, like a fairy-tale world, the spherical electric light emits a supernatural light just for the two of us.We saw swans sleeping in the white light around the pond; they flapped their wings slowly as we passed, and other birds, invisible to us, dived into the still water.

We see statues and colonnades on lawns, stone bridges over dark streams... ...called "fireflies" and found the word to have a mystical allure.There is a strange beauty to the sharper eye.Then he told me about Baudelaire.We also talked about taking a break and putting all literature behind us. In Aigues-Mortes - I have a pair of amaranth gloves. I remember this, not so much about the glove, but feeling the pooling of my memory around the glove.The same is often the case around a fragrance: as soon as the fragrance emerges, it evokes a scene. Now, with each new book I read, I go deeper into the ideas that the reading is meant to express...  

Maybe it's always the same: a dream come true, always followed by exhaustion, after a long rest, reading again, and the mind coming alive again. I have now returned to the state of mind I had before writing "Andre Walter": this tangled impulse, this sudden tremor, which I recorded in January, 1890 .It follows from this that in me this state, perhaps, always precedes a new creation, followed by a long rest. Yesterday, I was dull for a while.I forgot to note this: For a long time, I had a very quick mind and showed my wit everywhere.And for several hours yesterday afternoon, I felt my head was dull, I dared not speak easily, I was very annoyed in my heart, and I knew that if I opened my mouth, I would say something stupid.

Today, my spirituality came back again, but my mind was very calm, not as interesting and full of thoughts as a few days ago, and I couldn't calm down to read a book.Today, I fell into depression again; to be precise, it was a premonition that depression was approaching.Melancholy arises chiefly from the mind of pride; I like melancholy, but it takes so much pain that I long for the torture of the body, or the dulling of the mind, in order to divert and consume this erratic restlessness of the mind. The great face of Byron looms before me again, as I was sad for the first time last year...

I read Carlyle and find it both exasperating and fascinated.I shouldn't have read the second lecture ( ) in order to do my duty.Not penetrating, pretty ridiculous.I shouldn't be watching this at all.On the contrary, the first lecture gave me a very deep feeling: I couldn't finish reading in one breath, and every time I read a line, my thoughts slipped away and I thought about it for a quarter of an hour.And so I craved, almost got used to, a certain kind of bravery: a little hasty, but generally good, and certainly a spirit capable of great things. This Virgil is wonderful, I have not thought of it, and this is better, I have a thrill of discovery!These Pastorals!What a pleasure!Every sentence scratches the itch, and it is innocent, which greatly corrupts this Latin race!Or we—in short, one fell for the other.Several "Pastoral Poems" were poorly written——(the second one——the "Dwarf Snow Wheel"...)

Chaucer, glimpsed this evening in Danner's discourse, delights me. "Troilus and Cressida"! ——For this theme, you should take a look at Shakespeare's works.If I do not create plays, I shall never be comforted in the future. An impression that should be recorded (in fact, I can remember it without writing it down), is the sound of the piano in a house with closed doors and windows (Uze, the residence of the de Flor family).When the window was opened, there was a sound.Odors, especially smells: prints on curtains and upholstery, and rat droppings.Again, the discordant tone of the piano: the voice is thin and trembling, playing Bach's works, it is simply wonderful.

One thing is certain: Pierre-Louis was extremely utilitarian, while I was extremely impractical.Besides, I have no intention of being a utilitarian.I'm proud of not being that kind of person.This interest, which I despise, should therefore not be deplored. .Oh!How good it would be if I could accept this!But it's hard.At least I want to avoid getting involved and appear to be pursuing these things myself.You have to have a clear attitude, hold yourself tight, like Barbai Dalvilli in a tuxedo. However, in terms of dealing with people, I always make it awkward and ridiculous: I am very bold at the beginning of everything, but after the first trial, I stop;I know a lot of people, but just get bored and neglect to visit them.

I can never quite be sure that certain things really exist, and always feel that they don't exist when I don't want them to, or, at least, they stop paying attention to me when I don't pay attention to them.The world is my mirror, and I am surprised that the reflection is bad. Pursue only one thing, and pursue it unremittingly, so that you can get it.But for me, I want everything and get nothing.I keep finding that before I get one, I run to another. Louis always said that one of the secrets of success is to imagine yourself out of interest and love, craving everything that is useful to you.

Stop stoking my pride (in this note) and stop doing what Stendahl did.The spirit of imitation; I am especially on guard.One thing, don't do it just because someone else has done it.The lessons to be drawn from the little things of great men's lives should be remembered, not imitated. .In my head, this must also be emphasized. Do nothing to show off; push yourself to the superficial: by the spirit of imitation or the vanity of naysayers. No compromises (spiritual or artistic).It may be very dangerous for me to be in contact with other people: I always have a strong desire to please them; perhaps I should be alone.I have to confess this frankly: it was my lonely childhood that made me who I am now.It may be the best policy to exaggerate this characteristic, and I may derive great strength from it. (Spiritually, though, so many "maybes" shouldn't be used. Question marks shouldn't be withdrawn. What an absurd attitude to settle it all up front! What a rash!)

Brunetière says of the seventeenth-century men (at least many of them, not including Pascal): They had no deep views of life (for example, Shakespeare's), or dared not express them, Because they are in high society, and lower their minds to a level that women can understand. I read Danner (A History of American Literature) about Renaissance festivals and customs.Maybe that's the real beauty: purely physical.All this display of luxury and opulence would have given me chills not so long ago.I read this chapter at exactly the right time: when it corrupted me the most.My mind, indulged in the pleasures of the flesh, turned away from religion, and became wicked.This should be exaggerated.I can read: Stendhal, Encyclopedia, Swift, Condillac... To harden the heart (better to dry it out, others tend to mold in my heart).Then there are the robust, especially masculine, Aristophanes, Shakespeare, Rabelais...these should be read...the rest needn't be bothered.I have stored up enough tears in my soul to fill thirty books. "Race, circumstance and era," says Danner.Brunetière pointed out: What about the individual?Atopy! ! I like Brunetière's point, because what I feel least in myself is race, and what I feel most prominently is my very rare idiosyncrasy. I mark down June thirteenth. And to add a very important influence: the influence of personal choice. Race makes people, all right. But what about the environment and the times?Man can create an environment for himself, as if fake.I mean an artificial environment, chosen by oneself, completely surrounded by oneself. A writer—if he likes to be solitary—is more at home among his books than among his fellow-creatures.Later, he was influenced by a chosen great genius, which he transmitted to the whole age of his life.Some effects are lateral. (worthy of study). Today, I was able to be romantic again.It was my hair that caused it: the wind blows it and gives it a lyrical coiffure; my thoughts keep track.With a loud voice, I recited Hugo's "Navarino". This letter from Louis grieves me, and I see in it the sincerity of my friendship—otherwise a hurtful word of his would not have disturbed my heart so much.If it had been last night, I would have cried over it.From the beginning of this trip I was ready for a warm reception, those words at parting, that handshake, and then, expecting a reassurance, I sent this cruel letter. I grieve, I grieve over these things, as it should hurt to see a woman who puts all her hope in laughing at it. It was impossible for him to comprehend such a situation; perhaps he did not imagine that it would hurt me; he could not imagine how much more friendship was in my soul than in his,--and I always forget this, but I am reminded by this injury. I went to see him this morning--but I was afraid--I was very afraid of him! Yesterday afternoon I was with Henri de Regnier; I liked him very much.Later, Manuel was seen talking to each other in tedious words.This morning, having missed the opportunity of meeting Hussmanns, he wrote an extremely long letter to Paul Valéry.End the day with the righteous.I would most like to be with him, and we are as excited as ever. I am so happy--nothing is more beautiful than a sense of glory.Maeterlinck quoted this line from my book, listed among my four favorite authors--I'm so happy--that's the only thing people see me talk about.One day, Pelissier was in class and mentioned to them the book I gave to Lanson as the most lyrical and the best book on modern development. Work tenaciously. I sat on the terrace in front of a café (Piazza dei Medici), looked at Stendhal's work, and noticed that writing is a joy in pain. Strive to be above reproach. Not very happy - I understand they are sad about it.As for me, I savor an excitement "as much as I can" - setting a standard to see if the excitement reaches its climax, in order to measure the extremes bordering madness.I am in enjoyment, and I am satisfied only by savoring enjoyment. Several times I trembled, lest I go too far.Must be able to return. To be sure, any excitement, even painful, I call "pleasure." I spent all Sunday in Xavier Wood with Marcel Derouin.Marcel Derouhan is my favorite, maybe my favorite.When we first got together, we were so excited; we complemented each other so well.He's tired of exams.The two of us lay down on the grass to sleep.I read him my notes from my trip to Brittany. I was transformed back into Walter, which was great.There is no doubt that nothing is more beautiful than the nobility of the mind; beautiful, no, it should be said: sublime. I saw Louis again.God!Can we reconcile? He tore up my letter in front of my face!Why?This letter is completely candid.We have already had this violent explanation three times; we have made this painful attempt, and it is impossible to "fit" with each other;So why start from scratch?I'm still his friend; why does he have to be my friend?Now that I don't think much of him anymore, since I get nothing but weariness and boredom from his heated and grotesque discussions... oh!bored! I started writing in my diary again.I interrupted due to mental laxity.From health considerations, I should also force myself to write a few lines in a notebook every day. I will not tell the story of my relationship with Louis--first of all I don't want to tell it, and secondly, I can't get rid of it if I tell it, it will only increase the trouble. ... In the past, especially this made his influence on me: I thought he was better than me. I should have written these few lines a few days ago.Because, today we talked again.The substance of the matter is that I have always liked him, and, when I don't despise him, I like him very much--perhaps when I despise him as well. This morning—at his place, the two of them together—recovered some intimacy, and I was glad at first.Even happy at first, but soon mortified with shame and embarrassment about these things. By the end it was obvious to me that these things surprised me deeply.I was extremely uncomfortable, and there was always a forced smile on the corner of my mouth in good faith, trying not to shed tears out of disgust and consternation.It was not a trivial matter that irritated me: it was not bad to say that I did not have a dream; and, listening to it told with emotional joy, with a sweet, mediocre smile, Louis, too, Like everyone else, he naively believes that it is "this", that the beautiful theory he affirmed yesterday is replaced by another theory without knowing it today-oh!Especially when you no longer call yourself a hero or a shameless person, just show mediocrity.Besides, he himself clearly felt it.As for me, I want my life to be in order, like a beautiful poem—unordered, yes, but like a beautiful poem!Everywhere I long for the rarest of the best—and have all I had so far been very precious?To be loose, I also expect it to be extraordinary, and if it is not possible, I would rather give up... When they are loose, it is also a reflection of their fertility, which is the main thing-and I, I know that everywhere ... This should be said, but better: the disgusting bourgeoisness of the Hugos in their debauchery, and thus in their works ("Song of the Street and the Wood"—and others) —The passions of true artists are extraordinary, but conversely deviate in a sexual sense, such as Dante, Pascal, Pooh, Schumann, Michelet, Gustave Moreau, and Raphael Erpai painter, famous figure in legend... Gide met Maeterlinck in Ghent, Belgium on July 18 and left on July 23.During this short-term stay, he traveled to Bruges, Ostend, Amsterdam, The Hague, Brussels and other cities with his mother who came later. Maeterlinck read The Seven Princesses to me. Visited Bruges and Ostend yesterday.Whenever I arrived in a new city, I was immediately depressed, bored and depressed to the extreme, and wanted to leave as soon as possible.I shuffled through the streets, looking like I was suffering.Admirable as they are, the thought of seeing them terrifies me.This kind of amusement, I should have shared with Em, and I felt that I had stolen a little bit of Em's happiness when I played alone.Every afternoon I sleep, even if I have a little dream.Otherwise read a book. "Landscape", not only can't be dismissed, but always touches the pain, showing the shape of my miserable heart. At Ostend the sky and the waves were gray; the sea was raining like a great despair.I wanted to bask in the thrill of the flesh, watch the showers, and eat ice cream.I had a fever and had nosebleeds all day. My mother and I visited Bruges again.I was cold all over, curled up in some warmth. Farewell Maeterlinck.We started talking.I rather regret the things we might talk about with each other.I would still like to tell him in a letter.Again I had a strong desire to hide in the solitude of diligence. Maeterlinck has admirable strength. Alkmaar ...a garden of tulips and roses and lilies.Small houses, with clean streets sandwiched between them.I wandered over the washed mosaic tiles, some very coordinated little girls, in front of the door, rubbing the dirty spots that no one else could see.The mast of the ship cruises above the roof tiles, because the merciful God makes the sea here higher than the land. Deruane gets an honorable mention! Deluane is number one everywhere! When I read the good news to my mother, my mother shed tears of joy.I'm so happy.Tonight, in the hotel, I want to break the news aloud to everyone.I am so proud of Deruane, his friendship is the one thing that is most precious to me.I am so happy for him that I need to write: "My dear Deruane, I am so proud of you." That same evening, I learned that Emile Ambresan was dead.I'm pretty sure he committed suicide. A kind of curiosity attracted me. —and this feeling: If I could tell him... maybe? ——The day we were last together, we talked for a long time, and it was also the first time we talked.Not to commit suicide is a sign of cowardice, and I made this point frankly with him.And now, I almost have that desire. I wish I could talk about it again. I had some fantastic books brewing in my head: This trip was beginning to irritate me, as if it had left my precreative passions in a kind of postponement.I see a volume of poems (series), "On Narcissus"—these are the first to be written;—the rest are to wait.what!If only I could find it all again!My philosophy, my morals, slowly froze. Really, this Druane, what an honest man; he put me in great joy.I felt strong and powerful around him, like a wave of courage.I hope he takes me seriously.I also become very kind to others.My heart would also be perfectly merciful.Should be admirable. brussels Adam and Eve by H. von Eyck. Goya's "Inquisition Scene" and "Portrait of a Girl". The Goldsmith's Family by G. Frink. These three taught me a lot.There are other painters whom I admire more, but who haven't learned anything new.These three are personally beneficial to me.I jot down a few points. Frink, the villainous painter.When someone says "he has a personality," there is always something sinister about it.Because, to express yourself, you have to break something.Frink has a personality.Later, he painted kitsch and was afraid of himself. Morbid image: Ugly, stunted; both artist and portrait subject express themselves.Eyelids with gum, no eyelashes (which are prominent), and red.The colors are bold (the kid's blue jumper) and intentional.The face has been left out in detail, but its proportions are excellent, it is very powerful, and the hair hangs down on the face. Hubert von Eyck.In front of the painting "Adam and Eve", the girls turned their heads and laughed, and the clerks poked each other's elbows.Impression: Very strongly obscene.First of all, because of realism, I dare to draw all of them; second, it is the impression given by the body that is not suitable for nudity.Shameful naked, and feel shameful; ugly naked, feel cold.After Adam's fall: "then they understood that they were naked." Whether von Eyck added all this, I don't know; So he couldn't help it.This is a very devotional painting. "This is the man": Looks rather shabby, should get dressed as soon as possible, because nudity is ugly.Indispensable Hypocrisy; or Religion: Hence The Worship of the Mystic Lamb. Goya: The Inquisition.It's all expressed. "Portrait of a Girl": I didn't understand it at all.I stayed in front of this painting for a full hour, because I went around every day.Recognized as soon as the exhibition hall, I have never seen a Goya work, but I know how it is.Manet took a lot from him.There is no room for blame. I shouldn't write these points in this book purely objectively. In fact, these paintings have completely become mine.I have enriched myself with this. This morning, despite giving up all hope, I went again to the post office in Dinan, and finally received the letter from the honest man, the letter I was eagerly looking forward to... After taking the letter, on the way back, I seemed to be drunk, and I couldn't help screaming with joy.When some little girls saw someone like Le Cheng, they couldn't help being surprised, and they all turned around to take a look. Really, I need this letter; for my mind has a habit of doubting and restless in moments of solitude, as it has been for the last few days. Now, I am suddenly happy, I am so happy!Well!How happy, everything is colorful! ... There are famous karst caves in Ang village on the Les River in Belgium. Read it now. From the first day of the trip to the last day of the trip.I don't think I've ever been so immersed in a book.To be honest, I don't travel.I went to visit the famous cave that day, and I didn’t even bother to look at it. I always thought that Schopenhauer was still waiting for me in the car, and I was very annoyed. I shouldn’t stop reading to see the scenery. But afterwards, in my own way, I reorganized the glimpses into the desired landscape. Just now I was still pondering in my mind, trying to figure out whether it should exist first and then manifest, or should it manifest first and then exist as manifested? (It is just like shopping on credit first, and then consider the debt that should be paid off. Before it exists, it is borrowing from the outside world.) Perhaps, my mind speaks this way, people are only in their degree. Moreover, these two propositions are false, separate: 1. We exist to perform; 2. We behave because we exist. The two must be linked into an interdependent relationship; thus, we get the desired imperative: for. Behavior should not be distinguished from being; being manifests as being; showing is the immediate manifestation of being. But, so what! ! ? This view of Schopenhauer's morality (Foundations of Morals), which is purely empirical, really annoys me.Honestly, it's not a morality, it's a psychology: analyzing good motives.A morality should be transcendental.I really don't understand, my own moral view is full of mistakes, so why do I attack Kant's moral view so fiercely under the pretext of stealing arguments.In the first place, what philosophy does not restlessly pursue the principles which form its whole foundation? I met my Brittany again. In Dole, in the evening of this day—the rain kept falling, but it didn’t fall all the way to the ground, and the sky was the same color, gray and gray, with only a touch of mourning, so that the third watch bell rang, making the soul suddenly perceive the atmosphere This grey, and expectantly toned, relativizes everything. The quiet street, I wish I had walked through it two years ago: It was one evening, I, a homeless person, walked dozens of kilometers, and walked into a village feeling restless and exhausted.I watched the shadow advance until it was dark, and the silence followed the shadow.Then, at night I slept among these strange things. —The boat is at Cancale this evening.The gray sea resembles the sky, and the phosphorescent light on the shore is gone—but the sea is so calm and unbelievable—the boat in front of it seems to be weightless, floating in the flowing air, and the air is loaded with gray water, and it continues like a falling boat. Cloudy sea. In Mont Saint-Michel, I met three boys on the beach who became our guides, and I naturally liked one of them. It is absurd to look at a scene and always hope for a sunny day. These scenes in the rain have a wonderful melancholy mood. The key is harmony.There also needs to be a sound that reveals this harmony to the mind suddenly, as if instantly. and Morkel from Dinard to Saint-Lunelle.Morkel is lovely,--but I'm really bad at chatting.In my solitude, I lost the habit of using the artist's vocabulary.When it comes to compliments, it's just two or three modifiers, which can't leave my lips over and over again, so inappropriate to the point of absurdity. It is more interesting to tell others what they think than to tell them what you think.And that's exactly what I relentlessly strive to do in each new conversation.It is also in this way to win the favor of others.Man especially loves his own reflection; one always loves his reflection in another. ——I read Paulan's pamphlet ("New Mysticism"), and I was amazed that mediocre people are so afraid of going beyond the "real", as if they are worried about themselves, and limit their thinking "in the appropriate range ’, so pathetically speaking rationally, beware of hyperbole. It is this which gives genius a great power to groan, a boldness to hurl frightening ideas: with which they adorn their views, and transform them into their bauble. Well, how is it?We couldn't go out in the evening until it was dark. We can go down along the river bank to this sea of ​​light--the bathing place where the sun goes every day.I know that there are returning ships at the docks, and the boatmen put gold wire mesh on the mast to dry.I know children playing in the shallow water on the beach, and then, naked and beautiful, lying on the sand and basking in the sun. The wind yonder raises the sails to brighter shores we shall not know. So set sail, O ship, to the wondrous Antilles, and suddenly come back one day at dawn, laden with pearls, slaves, and shells - O ship, we will buy your spoils in gold, that we may taste the lost Like a sentimental scent, taste the sadness of yearning for your Florida Keys—a place we'll never know. ——However, from the perspective of pearls, we can dream of the warm sea water, from the astonished eyes of slaves, dream of the vast sky, — and hear the sound of the sea from your shells, — boat! Reap and sing, The barley is filled with wheat grains. We ran all the way to the cliffs to watch the sunset.In the setting sun, the wilderness stretches into the distance.We walked among the heather bushes, and the path was hidden in clusters of flowers. The pink flowers seemed to be the glow of the sky.Purple mist began to rise from the valley, and we lost our way in the twilight, only to find that the cliff was close by following the sound of the waves.The sun has set, but the sky is still bright and transparent. A... I sat on the wasteland, and I went to the rocks below alone, and saw three fishermen's children fishing on a rock.The water is very clear and you can see the bait underwater. The sky turned amber, and the reflected sky light floated on the sea.Elsewhere on the cliffs there are fishermen singing.The three kids not far from me were annoyed that they didn't catch any fish.I moved up to them; the bait was spread out on the rocks, and there was a pungent stench of roe and rotting sardine flesh.When it was getting dark, a group of whitebait approached, and the fish caught gradually filled the basket.The three children hummed a dirty little song, and then fell silent; a silence rose from the sea. I felt sick for a while, like after an event.I was back on the moor again; now the moor is lavender and green, and it's still and deserted.A gust of wind blew, very warm, and disturbed my square inch; the wind was so soft that I couldn't help feeling fluctuating and almost shed tears. I retook the heather path.The heather flowers are a little wilted: I know that, otherwise they would be brighter, and seem to sparkle in the night. In the twilight, the moon began to shed light.Children drive back to the flock without bells; carts wait at the open barn door.Stars appear. Once again I tread the dark path of shadows. Returning from Belle Ile, Elie Allegre stopped at Carnac, a village he did not know.As for me, tired of looking at these stones, I went as far as Aurai.There were several letters waiting for us, and I was very anxious to read them.Elie Allegra came back after dinner. The platform of Auray was bathed in golden sunlight; the river below showed its green mud bottom; everything was covered with sunshine, and the air was warm and caressing. I walked down to the river.There were piles of stripped logs, brought in for a nearby sawmill.Women and girls sat on the logs, chatting, playing or working.In the distance, fishermen's children bathe: they undress on the other bank and descend into the muddy, calfless river.An unmanned boat was drifting in the water, and they swam over, pushing each other naked in the water, giggling.I tasted long the bitterness of my insatiable desire.After swimming, they lay down on the bank and let the sun dry their bodies. I left.The sun is so bright.In the distance, the woods were covered in mist. I wanted to use the shade of the trees to read letters from my friends, so I set foot on the road. ... To write this is to say that the weather is hot and the gorse smells like ripe apricots!However, what does all this matter to me? ——Why did you choose to go this way? What’s the use of talking about it?The excitement of my determination to go this far can be used to give birth to other stories; this passion should not be confined to the little facts that produced it, but should be extracted and placed elsewhere. Events are but borrowed topics, and only passion is important. Passion cannot be told. (I won't narrate, writing these are just for self-comfort.) Two mysterious boats pass by The moonlight illuminates the silver village. Not a single word, not a single name came to mind.I felt myself an abstraction, monotonous and vague.In the haze, I unknowingly chewed a little bit of poor passion. Feeling poor in thought, not ashamed. There is no word on paper for more than a month, and I am tired of talking about myself.The usefulness of a diary is to record conscious, necessary and difficult spiritual processes.People always want to know what state they are in.However, what I want to talk about now is to reflect on myself.A personal diary is especially meaningful when recording the awakening of the mind; or the awakening of the senses during adolescence; or when the feeling of death is approaching. There is no more tragedy in me, only the ups and downs of thoughts.I no longer need to describe myself. My cousins ​​are gone.I am happy to be alone again, but I dare not admit it in my heart.Returning from Honfleur, my mind was in a pleasant state of excitement, which gave me more pleasure than reading.I got back to work and wrote my book.I mean it, and I'm rather sad, a little afraid of the cold, and my mind seems dulled by sleepiness. Thoughts are active and firm.I start wrestling; have to keep wrestling.I went on to write Narcissus, thinking that I would be able to write it. Before long I could not tolerate others, and I must have become a loner in the end.No matter in front of anyone, I am ridiculous, impulsive, and irritated.I think other people's opinions are more important than ever.At this point, I have not grown much.Now, I have a dozen or so friends who are always on my mind.One has to be pretty sure of one's mind so that one doesn't have to keep proving one's right. The present, today, and future we live in will become a mirror for us to know ourselves, and we can understand who we are from the way we were at the beginning. Thinking about this makes me shudder.I am really vigilant, and every time I decide to do something, I have to figure out whether it should really be done. On December 28, Gide went from Paris to the house of Uze's grandmother, where he stayed until January 18, and then went to the house of his uncle Charles Gide in Montpellier. I come back to you, Lord, because I think that nothing but knowing you is an illusion.Guide me on your path of light.I've walked the rough road, gained illusory wealth, and thought I was rich.Lord, have mercy on me: the only real wealth is what you give.I wanted to be rich, but I ended up poor.After all this trouble, I was very poor again.I remember the old days, the days when I prayed.Lord, lead me on your bright paths as before.Lord, save me from pain.If only my soul could be proud; my soul is a common soul; oh!May all those struggles, my prayers...not be in vain. I've lost real riches, chasing illusions that I thought were real and reliable, because I saw others believe them.Real wealth must be recaptured. "Hold on tight to all your..." Actually I know all of these things. 只有远离上帝才感到不安；只有在上帝那里才能得到安歇；因为，他是亘古不变的。 只应当渴求上帝；须知任何事物，不待我们的欲望餍足就会逝去；或者事物依然存在，可是我们却没有这种欲望了。 虚假的财富欺骗我们。人不再寻找上帝，只因看不到自己贫困。他们自以为富有，只因他们人数众多；数量多得很，难以计数了……只有一种财富能使人富有，这便是上帝。由于这种财富是惟一的，人们就很清楚拥有与否，是惟一的，就极容易计数。他使你充实，因此也能让你安歇。我的上帝啊，你什么时候能全面照顾我呢？ 动笔写作的时候，最难的事情就是坦率。应当掂量掂量这个思想，确定什么是艺术的坦率。暂时我想到这样一点： 这个词永远不会超越理念。或者说： 这个词总是理念所必需的，应当是不可抗拒的、无法删除的，对于句子如此，对于整部作品也如此。而且，对于艺术家的整个生命来讲，使命也是不可抗拒的，他不能不写作（我希望他首先抗拒自己，从而感到痛苦）。 数月以来，不能做到坦率的这种担心，一直折磨着我，妨碍我写作。不折不扣的坦率…… 大家承认身体散步，而神思显现。看到一个步行者沿一条路走了一段时间之后，又顺原路回去，再走上另一条路，然后又换一条路，一般人不见得认为散步者走错了路…… 我记得莱布尼茨在什么地方说过（我有记录），让神思游荡也有乐趣。 “人们喜欢迷路，而这正是一种精神散步。” 《神正论》第一卷。 总之，如果说人人都有资格被接纳，那么秘传的学说就站不住脚，——或者是一种不公道的、荒谬的东西，一种窃取的霸道。秘传学说的形成，自然是由于智力的等级——一些人理解，另一些人不理解。活该他们不理解。记得《圣经》有这样一句话：“他们应该来见你，而不是该你降格向他们靠拢。”不过，最美妙而偏爱的事物最不被理解时，还应当哀叹，正是因为最不被理解的事物不受欢迎，也得不到大多数的保护。