Chapter 11 1897

Belgium, January I think I'm old enough to travel.The similarity of the scenery has caused me to be bored, which has surpassed the discomfort caused by the different scenery, and the place I am passing through today lacks the comfort that makes people want to live. At sunset, the place is flat, and the golden sky behind the poplar branches can be seen all the way to the ground. I love the horse-drawn galleons in the canals; and behind the smoke of the blast furnaces, or I can't remember which frontier town, where the sunset is completely immersed in a pool of blood. The night at the factory, the blaze of the blast furnace—the solitary house on the hill—the burden of civilization... All this recreates an epic impression to a certain extent (I feel this way, perhaps because I Lun Zhong sees this again).

Anyway, on this long trip, of the three, I felt the most lost and bored—yes, bored. — It doesn't make sense to list them.Every time nature is unwilling to talk and is cold, we will call it like this.Luckily we can still chat together. We pass factories and mountains of coal.Adorably ugly.The smoke from the chimney fell to the ground. In this country, I'm going to strike before I'm a worker. In response, I read (really courageously) Boccaccio's scroll.I don't like places where pleasure is the cause of a reaction.How could I write mine in such a gray landscape everywhere.Do I just think I can write, or do I give up all hope and wait for our great escape to the East?

This morning Valette was doing very well, scratching all over my neat manuscript with a basket of pencils under the pretense of helping the typesetter to read it.When he rowed to "Ballad of Pomegranate", I couldn't help crying. I should have kept this "Ballad of Pomegranate" intact and put it in my small study.This is the first thing you copied for me. I don’t know if you fully comprehend it. To me, these few pages of manuscript mean a kind of guarantee of being connected with one heart—seeing my thoughts in your writing, etc. Wait. ——In short, it was a completely unfamiliar kind of happiness, and I didn't know how to express it to you at the time.

A terrible quirk of the literary man: To separate all feeling from its mode of expression.To look at this first and then that — to look at this or that — to look at one without considering the other has serious consequences. I had never understood so deeply how much I loved her before. My uncle Charles and I arrived on the 3rd of July, who had not yet been to La Roque.I spent the night in Caen yesterday, and Rouen the day before. ... Went to Campbellmere (to see the postman's boy) in the morning in the pouring rain last Sunday, to attend the mayor's meeting.In the afternoon, give a speech at the awards ceremony. ...

Paul and I walked to Loj, where we resumed the conversation we had interrupted the day before.Paul said he was a very devout Catholic: "Catholic by birth, like blond or brunette." Of course, at the end of his life, a priest had to be called—a formality, but necessary— I'm afraid I'll have to say to the priest, "Hurry up." (—Why write down some words? These words can only be useful if they are calmly mutated in the mind—yes, but... there is no reference, and it is difficult to judge the extent of the mutation afterwards.) Stupid discussion, at first I (involuntarily) heated up a little against Paul's opinion, because Paul (at the supper table in Ybor) advocated Abelard, that is, La Rumay, who was completely inclined to St. Bernal.Do I know who they are?I am very sorry for my ignorance.Three days ago, I started reading a brief history of England... but how long will it take.

The spirit of the underground turned again. A few dreams: Made saw me walking in front of me, holding a bundle of manuscript paper, which she knew was going to be delivered to the printing house.She asked me what it was, and I replied, "These are going to be thrown into the fire of Babylon." another one.I said to Paul: You know, Yborse's soap is much better; ours smells bad, and Paul understands that the soap is only worth half a franc a bar. A surgeon operated on me and cut open my stomach. He leaned down in the middle of the operation and whispered into my ear, "How much will you pay me?"

The day Lida left.She stayed only three days this time (in June or July she spent a week in La Roque with Jana, Derouin, and Rouire).In such a short stay, I might see an unintentional rival in love in her, and I'm afraid she will gradually draw my mind away from M. At Laroque we had already talked very speculatively.She was of an excellent disposition; she said that it was from hatred (such a man conceived, if it could be called) of the lukewarmness of others that she was full of enthusiasm.M. de Coppet (or Berciere), in a very pious sermon, said that Christ never asked a man to give up his property, and to make other compromises which infuriated me.We chatted on this topic for a while.Somebody read to her Yam's poems and King Lear.In the evening, she said to Madeleine: "I know too little, too little." Then she added: "But it may be better this way, because if I know a lot, maybe I won't be single-minded. Dedicated to my philanthropy." Back in Rouen, still restless, she wrote a splendid letter, which Madele must have preserved: She lived among the Salvation Army and the ungrateful "missing girls," For the first time, this life seemed ugly to her.She had vaguely seen "something else".

We set off for Etretat, accompanied by Batushka, Frauulin, and even the fat cook Mary in the car seat; the books we carried were: Wiseva's "Foreign Writers", "History of English Literature" volume III, Tolstoy's Memoirs, and a copy of the Debate, in which there was an article by Ander Michel reviewing the celebration of Böcklin's birthday at Baarle not long ago. A silly theatrical performance."I don't think the article was very candid," Flaulan told Batushka. (It was never understood why she felt that way.) And she said it as if to make me understand that I wouldn't understand , she didn't tell me.Last night Lida thought (very politely) that Roval's handwriting was like his tie; and since this remark hit the point, I couldn't help being a little annoyed.I didn't talk much, and I was already "drunk".I read a few pages of Tolstoy.The weather is very hot, although it is not yet the season.When we arrived in Etretat, we first dispersed our activities: some women went to the tailor to make clothes for the lady; Batushka and I went to the beach.The weather was amazing.The sky is clear, the sea is calm, just like what I dreamed of in Djerba, and the cliff on the right is reflected in the water.Freshly tarred fishing boats ready to go to sea (anchored at four o'clock in the afternoon), their masts already set sails, all bright ecru.Some of the crew members were very busy, and some were lying there, as if listening to a story and being fascinated leisurely.It's amazing, everyone is amazing, how can this situation not make people cry.I said to Ba, "Are you eager to travel?" He answered me with a cry from the heart, and we had a common understanding that the more one is in an "amazing" environment, the more one desires to look elsewhere— (This kind of meaning is difficult to express).When it rains, when the weather is bad, I don't want to go anywhere.Ba wanted to swim, so we went to Doc's to ask for towels.

Like two urchins, we ran towards the small gate excitedly.We missed the moment, however, and Made and Lida came too.I'm not satisfied with anything: not being alone, or with Mard, gossiping irritates me, but Ba fascinates me, and I love him more and more.We watched the green anemones, the forest-like fucus, the starfish; and in the net were two large mackerel, pierced with gill holes, but put in the net, we think.We go through the pipeline.The landscape is quite beautiful.We're back again: the little fisherman stays put, the shank on top of the brown algae is wonderful. We rejoined Flaulan and blamed ourselves for leaving her alone. (Equally blaming myself every time, because it's always a repeat offense every time.)

I walked alone towards the cliff door again. The water is extremely low, and you can walk at the foot of the cliff arches and the completely exposed needle stones of the foundations.Behind the arch, the sky was strange, but also eerie, the color of frozen gooseberries.Everyone else joins me. Everyone appreciates and revels in the scenery.I fell behind slightly, feeling infinitely melancholy. ——A little fisherman was singing. When I approached him, I saw his lovely face, but his demeanor was helplessly stable.He told me he didn't want to be a seaman, not because he was afraid, but because it didn't make much money, and it wasn't what he wanted to do anyway.He wants to be a carpenter.

He almost went back to town with me, stopping and going, trying to catch a bat.There is not much to say about this.I jotted it down so that it would bring back memories afterwards.Lida is gone. It should be recalled, because that boy was wonderful, he sold honeycomb cakes and joy, his name was Pedro, and he was from Santander.I bought his honeycomb cake many times and talked to him.One day, he followed me to the hell cliff and sat next to me in a very cute posture.He told me his name was Pierre, but that's not how it's called in Spanish, so I said, "Oh, yes, it's Pedro!" Later, one evening, Paul and Rosenberg and I were walking back from Etretat, uphill to the village of Villanville, and we happened to meet him going downhill, still carrying his big suitcase.He told me that he lived in Crictor during the winter.I was overjoyed at the thought of seeing him again.But I made all the inquiries and now know that he lives in Fécamp. It took me several days of wandering the countryside in order to see him again before I learned of this.Besides, I have also searched for others in this way, and there is really no need to make a fuss. I still remember little Ahmed, that particularly restless kid whom I didn’t meet again in Biskra until the day I left—I sat in a cafe watching Embalka dance for me, he Sadek came in and sat down beside me. Remember that on October 28th, Made received a letter from Mathilde and a letter from Lida at the same time. Both letters were very good and worth reading again. The translation with Rosenberg was completed last night, October 27, 1997.Today is the last day of his stay here.We're going to Étretat together, and he's going to try on shoes.Just the two of us.It's been a fine day -- a fine day -- and we play tennis early in the morning and then again after lunch. We climbed the cliff with Rosenberg and sat on the cliff door.He said to me, about, what other people should say to me, was what the angel said to the poet, author of the Zoroastrian saga we have just translated: "Give this work a wife." Also consider what the Bread from Heaven that good-natured Jam is eagerly looking forward to might look like. Lida said to Made: "Everything ugly, miserable, painful attracts me. Terrible attracts me, and I want to throw myself into it." Madd's opinion (she knows a lot - always gentle, in a woman's way - but her kindness is supernatural). Dinner at Nguyen's house.Made has a cold and stays at home.Lavery's two young men are stupid enough to laugh at old man Nguyen's handsome face (and mine). in Le Havre.I went into the criminal police station.It is here, after reading Dostoyevsky, that one sees the most thrilling aspects of humanity. Marcel Derouin is employed as a philosophy teacher at the secondary school of Alençon.He is Madeleine's brother-in-law and Yana Rondo's husband.Gide and Madeleine went to visit Alençon separately. Before dawn, in the wee hours of the morning, sometimes it is very fresh, very clear and silent, and you can hear cocks crowing. In the market, all the women are wearing the same hat, standing behind the goods they sell, and the stalls are in front of them. They stand motionless from nine o'clock in the morning to half past twelve, forming a pattern along the entire street. sidewalk. Leaving Alençon today at 11am. Madeleine tried her best to hold back her tears, but the tears she held back gave her a migraine.Others need us to be happy; we don't need others. I went on to watch Rootless. Those people were going to write me off; my reason for living was simply to be against them.I have to think about what religious or moral banners I can use when I sing against the stage, and how to be justified. I think of Prometheus' motto: "Give yourself to his eagle, and that is enough." The other asks: "Is that all your discoveries?"—then answer: "Yes, it is my best discovery." Tired and sad.To want to be effective; to feel her power, but not at all to understand how to be effective.It seems that you are not needed.She should need you - but how to make her feel this need. A great unsatisfied self-esteem returned to me like a demon that could neither move nor sleep. "The devil in me", is probably what René said. As soon as I arrived in Paris, I went to see Valéry, and I was nowhere to be seen at his house, but at the Odéon I saw him with Schwobe and Marnot. —Valéry and I—talked almost laboriously, about social news.I apologized endlessly for not writing to him.He seemed to take it to heart, which made me sad at the time. I went home disheartened.How to do it?People are gone: social circles are closed again.You don't know what to say, and what they say, you are only interested out of curiosity.They blame you for not needing them, and feel that you have become a stranger—and therefore an enemy.Didn't notice it at first.Months of lonely life make you feel amiable when you see any friend's face, and you want to throw your arms around your neck, but the other party smiles slightly, - looking at you - and says to you: "Ai! Ai!" Lost sense of proportion, at a loss.Demonstration like a dog.But outside, the world is vast, and your passion has no hindrance, only the restraint of nature. But here, the restraint of nature is concealed in man, which is their condemnation, envy, hatred.As long as I dare not make it public, I feel awkward, obsequious, and hypocritical when I face them.It's not my worth, and if I'm not oriented to my worth at all, it's tantamount to self-killing. "What's going to happen?" It's not sinister at all today, it's just been away for a few months.However, in another three or four years - when do I want to reappear?I don't know what other people are busy with.I came before them, a stranger, an enemy. —I can't find a reason to exist in the middle.The only possible way is to put on a posture with them; I am alone, I must have a particularly large energy-otherwise I will disappear. This kind of double betrayal, Paul should at least say it himself, and should not wait for others to tell me.To say it was a betrayal is a bit serious, but to say it was cowardice, I don't quite understand... If so, why did he give Pierre-Louis my engraving so that he could see Madeleine's portrait. In Couverville he said to me: "Well, I am scrupulous in such matters, and an engraving belongs to the man who painted it, not to the author. I have to ask you for the engraving. The master is yours." ’” You know I’ve already told him that I’m going to give Pierre an engraving. That's nothing.The matter of Made's portrait was far more serious, and I was especially saddened that Made knew about it. Strange thing: Can't recall where or when I first read Swinburne's works. Later, the scene came before me: I read "The Triumph of Time" to Madeleine (in her guest room in Bisquera), and in the office on rue Comai, in the presence of Paul and Drouin , read "Proserpina's Garden". I think his influence on me was deep and long lasting. Same with Whitman, I don't know when I first read the translation in Vogue; I think Schwober told me about it, and then Wizewa's article. About R: He has only lovely flaws—his strengths themselves are overwhelming: Others feel themselves wanting. Because, Yana is amazing - we can't all forget it.She replied to what XX said to her: "She's lovely, little Mrs. Derouin. She's always smiling. Excuse me, ma'am, where did you get this philosophy?" "That's a question, doctor: from my husband." The last few days in Couverville were both rewarding and pleasant.It was just the three of us, Made and Frauulin, and I began to organize all my memories. It was at the end of this autumn that the so-called "unlucky" period occurred: This evening I frightened the people of the Le Messler farm with my face resembling a suspicious-looking stranger; Things can get very serious.