Chapter 21 1907

Last night there was a family dinner at Charles Gide's. Jeanne and Paul told me successively that Arthur Fontaine had come to Briand to try to award me the Legion of Honor.This fact was reported to them last Saturday by Mayjean, Briand's secretary.Mayjean did not understand Fontaine's friendship with me (and it was impossible for him to understand this friendship), so he thought that I was trying to gain it in vain, and to be honest, I didn't know it at all.This made me very unhappy, and I couldn't eat anything at the whole dinner. Mayjean didn't like me, he didn't hide his disdain for me, and he hated everything I wrote.What made him sad was that his feelings for Paul were not reciprocated, especially when his self-esteem was hurt, seeing that Paul liked my group more than his group.Paul did not hide his disdain for him.Mejean thought that association with me could only be harmful to Paul, and when last spring Dr. Andrea, who knew me very well, persuaded Pavel's mother to agree to hand over Paul to my guardianship and education, Mejean objected. attitude became very intense.

Meghan was not a hypocrite, but he was, after all, operating in secret.He is short.I've always been wary of little people.I told Paul a long time ago, be careful of Mejean... Someday, I will paint a portrait of a villain, who is straightened up by moral principles, so as not to lose a centimeter of height.He acts affectionate and highly emotional, but there is always the feeling that he has little to give.A typical example of a villain's success.He was able to climb it thanks to his patience, saving every penny and paying attention to health care.He will come from both sides, always remain the same, regard his tenacity as wisdom, and the stability of his desire as virtue.Enough said about him.

I wrote him a letter, and it took me a whole morning to confess.Then go to G's house and show Paul the draft of the letter; Paul has a good judgment and feels something is wrong.Just let Mei Rang understand that I don't even know what Feng Dan did.Don't show your annoyance just because Mei Rang knows that this matter has not been done.After copying and rewriting this letter, I finally realized that it was better to write nothing at all for this last point, and I threw what I had written into the fire. This letter took almost three, or even four, hours, if you count the time I spent at Charles Gide's.

Marcel Derouin came to lunch; at about two o'clock I left them and went to my room to sleep for an hour.However, I was sleepy and not well rested.The irritating letter to Mayjean was still on her mind.There were other letters which exhausted the rest of my patience.I can't read, I can't write... After dinner, I practiced the sonata for piano and violin that Maniar had just sent me. The best time of the day is half an hour in the bath (Olvelli Bath), comfortably reading the first chapter of Ferraro ("Antony and Cleopatra") Giovanni Pabini, the president of the magazine, visited.He was younger than I had expected, and his face was expressive and somewhat handsome.A little overactive, but not as aggressive as other Italians I know.There were too many compliments, but some of what was said seemed to be sincere.Like all the Italians I know, he believes too much in his own importance, at least too much, or in a different way than the French.How did he know how hard it is for me to take it seriously.

Pabini left, and I read three chapters of Ferraro's work, and the fourth after dinner. What matters to me now is not how much I read, how I read it, or how much attention I pay.I must fight against the disintegration and dispersion of my thoughts by all means.It is precisely for this reason that I picked up this diary again. Although I am not very interested, it is used as a training method for writing.However, what dare I expect?As soon as I start writing again, I lose sleep again! ... What a happy time that was, being able to control every moment of oneself, the arrangement was particularly good, every moment was very fulfilling, and in just a quarter of an hour, I could only escape with a load of tasks.All my work is arranged in advance, and every night before I go to bed, I know exactly what I will do tomorrow; one job changes another, and I get rest.The bondage of this approach, which I readily accept: forcing myself to be largely true to myself, to be what I set out to be.

Maybe I wouldn't be able to go on like this without tensing up a bit. ... I crossed the Luxembourg Gardens and arrived at Rue Assa.Since I have paid more attention to people, I have paid less attention to natural scenery.Ten years ago, every shade, every ray of sunshine would dress me up.I even saw the tenderest buds of irises... Lunch at Johann Schellenberg's was delicious, and the last sweet, a rosebush marmalade, tried to keep the game, like an oriental food, which I loved in Bluff. At two o'clock in the afternoon, at Leon Bloom's.One of the nice things about meeting him is that he receives you as if you met yesterday.We can speak freely.His book on marriage is a month away.He wrote the book, and the words literally flowed from the pen.I'm not sure he's wrong.The artist in him is of little value, and his sentences, like Stendahl's, have no intention of seeking anything but their own thoughts: thoughts burst forth at once from mouth or pen, rich and definite, yes, very Rich, but more definite, without the drastic Schaudern—so, from the beginning to the end, it is also easy to express, and from the beginning to the end, it is always so decent to meet people.Leon Bloom could not have conceived of a more accurate, clearer, more graceful, more intelligible account of an incident, of a review of a book or a play.What an excellent "reporter" he was at the Council of State!What a shrewd critic he would be if politics hadn't weighed heavily on his mind.However, he judges people and things not according to his likes and dislikes, but according to his point of view.He believes that likes and dislikes are not as reliable as opinions, and would rather go against his own likes and dislikes than appear inconsistent.It's hard to say that he loves everything he said he loves, but he definitely believes in love and knows why.

... The confusion of my thoughts reflects the chaos of my villa, where every room has been "suffering". I was so sleepy last night, I didn't write anything, and I went to bed at 8:30.But I can't sleep, ... I can't decide if I'm going to Berlin; I can't even decide if I want to go.Pulled by someone, yes, maybe I went.My buoyant nature has at least one advantage: I don't regret anything I do.This indecision is at the same time the cause and effect of my weariness... Maybe it is better to decide to stay in Paris. Leave it to my friends, who will call my insensitivity contemptuous and haughty.

A letter from Gaion prompted me to go to De Max's house so that Gaion could read it himself.Pierre Gangan (?) was there too, whom I had seen last Sunday in a box at the theater.Even though the attempted suicide had given him a magical tinge, I didn't like it either: he had a savage look, a good-featured goof, and neither good nor malice in his eyes.I blame myself for saying to him that I was very glad to see him safe and sound.I blame myself even more for emphasizing it this morning, and I think I said to him: "I am very glad to see you look so good, sir." (And he answered me very coldly.) I told him I don't want to say this boring sentence to him at all, just because no one talks, and I have nothing to say.

... Nothing, in my opinion, devalues ​​Jaime more than the inscription to John de Gourmont.There is no doubt that Gourmont confided to him the pain of his heart, especially in the magazine, which extols the poet of the "Church" very plainly, and I was immediately glad that I did not send him "Amantas". I stopped to watch this extraordinary spectacle: On the corner of Prony Street and the other street, .There were two dogs beside him, one of them was watching with a gloomy expression; the other, stimulated by the scene, became so sexually aroused that he couldn't bear it any longer, wanted to share a share, and attacked the two dogs who loved each other.I observed carefully and saw this: it completely left the female dog aside, and only charged at the male dog, sparing no effort: biting from the front, attacking from the rear, and sometimes simply riding on it, almost succeeding, and What kind of purpose is achieved! ... The dog that was crushed below was so embarrassed and dragged down by the mating bitch that he had to let her be manipulated and resisted only when he had to; what I heard was a short bark, almost a moan of pain.

Some of the boys stood still, staring at the dogs.Some nannies led the little girl past and couldn't help giggling, and the little girl asked questions in surprise.For my part, I would like to go up and stay a little longer; but I dare not, lest I be seen watching this, and it is diagonally opposite Denis's, and he will open the door for me in a moment.I'd really like to hear how those urchins react.Did they notice the "abnormalities" in the behavior of these unpretentious animals...? Maurice Denis finishing the Loucher foyer.I like to see him in overalls, like an ordinary worker...he is softening the overly showy rose in the flower shadow, making it more soft and harmonious.It's by no means his best work, but the close-ups are pretty good in some parts.Could Maurice Deney now learn to draw with a little less ease? ... In fact, his handiness, in the final analysis, is nothing more than a manifestation of his health.

He was going to accompany me to Berlin to see the first performance of "King of Condor" and express his joy in the most delightful way.I cannot say that my affection for Maurice Denis was extremely strong, but his sincerity and respect always gave me a pleasant feeling.I was consoled in his health, and his judgment was a little crude, but never unintelligent.If all my friends are like him, then my feelings can only be vented in books, and I must write these books. At the exhibition of Sikel's works, I saw Tade Nathanson again.I went to the exhibition in a rash manner, looking stupid and stupid, and could not help complimenting people, like a person who knows his words are boring, so he adds a little sugar, more sugar, at least to make his words a little sweet.The exhibition of Walter Sikel's works is too dull to be praised; it made me like the ridiculous conversation with Taddé.What I said casually out of exhaustion, if I wrote it, I would be ashamed to cross it out at once.In his eyes, I put on a "complaining" appearance (this kind of appearance is the most unwilling to be forgiven by others, and I am also the least willing to forgive myself).This silence that surrounds me, why should I speak to such a person?In three lifetimes he will never understand that this silence around me is me.I told Tadai that "Hermit", "The West", etc. are all friendly magazines, but none of them commented on my "Amantas".I hope he understands that I don't take praise as an obligation for an article.Taddei immediately comforted me.I parted from him to savor the pain of a bad gesture.I say "bad posture" because the beauty of this posture is only valuable if I have the courage (and ability) to follow through.I mention it here, so I have to add it right away: Note that only when I give up, I pretend to be like this and squeeze out a few wrinkles; and I also give up because I am tired. I don't sleep well at night, and I always chew all these considerations endlessly, like a tobacco leaf, the bitterness can never be chewed. However, when I felt a little better, I realized that I must never relax my strict requirements on myself, and I must never retreat or backtrack, but I should persevere and go forward bravely on my own path. After expressing this meaning, I went to Kebo's house to rest for a while, and I needed to look at my image in a slightly beautified mirror. ... We knew Gaeon was at the show, too, when he showed up at the end of the intermission.I left the show and chatted with him until he got on the 0:25 train. Gaion was noisier than usual, more croaking, judgmental, and very loud, just the way I like it—but alas!I also know that this publicity is only a temporary reaction to his living in seclusion in the Bray area.He announced to me that now he was painting, or even just that. ——“What I have made is very good, and I will show you. The greatest joy in this is to be able to be sure of the Vijals, the Russells, and many other people who love us.  … Humph, It's very easy, my man." In short, it encouraged him to focus on line, structure, style, positioning.That's fine. He yelled these words on the main road, causing all passers-by to look back.His woolen peaked cap was pressed down on his old woman's skin like a drunk.This is exactly, the way I like it. I still see him at the Bach concert on Tuesday. Pierre-Louis' Ionian character was too prominent, and my Dorian character was too prominent, for the two of us to talk together. Charmwa visited the asylum for the asylum... (Neumours, presumably) and came back very ill.De Max has given me his bad news.A postcard invited me to his studio to see busts of Nietzsche, Beethoven and Zola.There were many people in the studio, and only Mrs. Charmwa was receiving her. She told me that Joze had been ill for a week and asked me to visit him.The house in Mann's cul-de-sac was undoubtedly too expensive, and they moved away.I came to 91 Rue Vaugirard, facing a dilapidated staircase.When I went up to the third floor, I saw the key stuck in the door. Obviously there was no doorbell in the corridor.Entering is a dark hall, and inside is the shabby room where Sharmva is sick.Lots of photos belie the ugliness of the walls.In the corner stood a bedstead, covered with a mattress; a mismatched coverlet, and a maroon ribbed quilt.In the room, in a semicircle around the bed, there was a young girl, a little haggard, with face and hair like a squire in a painting by Carpaccio; The big John de Bonnefon.Joze rubbed a few sprigs of acacia on his bed with his pale hands; his velvet coat matched his pale face.I sat down at the foot of the bed, and there was a haphazard pile of feather suitcases, umbrellas, and overcoats underneath.John de Bonnefon's words were more interesting than his words, and he never bored me for a single moment.He soon gave way to Miss Anna Sey and Dr. Konta. Charmwa's talk of the madhouse aroused my desire to go there with Dupuy, who had just returned. ... Barres was admitted to the French Academy.For the first time in my life, I entered this small closed place.We had lunch at the house of Paul-A. Laurent, and he came with us again, and left as soon as he saw the crowd. Why talk here about the things that all the newspapers have published at length? —We left before Vogel spoke. Barres tried to pose as gracefully as possible, wearing an unsightly academician uniform.Of all of us, he has changed the least.How I love his thin face, his flat hair, and even his suburban Parisian accent!How mediocre was the speech he gave us!I can't stand the cowardice, the flattery, the praise of this kind of party idea in the speech, and he may think it is natural, I mean he should never go against his own mind for it, but with these, it is easy here Just win the applause, which includes taking a bite of Zola. I'm not the only one who noticed that he specifically praised Heredia's family, but also deliberately avoided mentioning Heredia's sons-in-law. In the praise of Legonte de Lisle and Heredia, two masters without roots (and Chenier! And Moreas!), how cleverly the master of sophisms has brought them Put it in his pocket, won't anyone point it out? Came out of there tired and dejected and very depressed.One more day like this, and I will be considered religiously mature. Em was wondering if she wanted me (whether I imagined myself) to be at one of those parties, giving a speech. "Poor friend, that's not the way I'm going. I'm less and less thinking of those kinds of parties where I'm not allowed to speak my mind." The rereading of Barres's attack on Zola infuriates me all the more.There are base souls who always exaggerate favorable views. In the article about Barres, I would point out these: 1.Any opinion is relative,--so it is correct only in connection with. . . 2.Choose one's point of view not on the basis of an ever-dubious and provisional correctness, but on the basis of a real, albeit temporary, benefit to me as an individual. Returned from Berlin on January 30.The first two days were wasted for nothing.Yesterday, I cheered up and went to bed without writing the beginning of "The Return of the Prodigal Son". This morning, I am not allowed to go out by myself, and I will work first.That's the way it should be done, any other way is absurd.The afternoon was still very inattentive, but not uninteresting.There is no need to continue to write down what you did and who you saw.What I put here should not be my distraction, but my "concentration".On the way, I read Dupuet's "Rosetti's Art and Life Commentary", which benefited a lot, but it was a pity that it was poorly written. I left this diary behind in the past few days, but in order to write, I drafted "The Prodigal Son", intending to express my ideological reservations and impulses in the form of dialogue. This morning, I received a letter from Claudel, a letter filled with indignation, condemning this era, condemning Gourmont, Rousseau, Kant, Renan... It is good to be angry, but it is anger after all, It was pain in my head too, like a dog barking in my ear.I couldn't bear it, so I plugged my ears immediately.But I hear it anyway, and it's hard to get back to work. Valery would never understand that the kind of friendship I needed was to listen and to talk without making noise.I spent nearly three hours with him yesterday.In my mind afterward, nothing stands still. He went out with me, and accompanied me to the woods.I took skates that had been sleeping in their boxes for ten years, and to be honest, I didn't think the skates were that rusty when I was on the ice.Valéry never left me; I felt uncomfortable seeing him waiting for me, so I went away with him again without much skating, and we parted only at the door of Charles Gide's house, where I went in to find out how Paul was doing. Needless to say, it was impossible to work at night.After such a "conversation", everything in my mind is messed up. Valéry's talk puts me in the position of either thinking that what he says is absurd or that what I say is absurd.What he wanted to cancel during the conversation, if all of them were cancelled, then I would have no reason to exist in this world.Furthermore, I never argued with him, it was nothing more than he strangled my neck and I struggled. Didn't he assert to me yesterday that music (he was quite sure) would become purely mimetic, that is to say, into increasingly accurate signs of the inexpressible part, without regard for aesthetics at all: 1 kind of language. He added: "Who cares about the Greeks these days? I'm sure what we still call the 'dead language' is going to rot away. Henceforth it will be impossible to understand the emotions of the characters in Homer, etc. wait wait wait." It takes longer for my mind to pick itself up after hearing such words than it takes for the hail-beaten grass to stand up again. Gradually finishing The Prodigal Son—but today, I'm going to be distracted by Letters from Berlin.Buley and Greve sang their own tunes around "Saul", and each thought they had taken the piece of meat. If I'm following a straight line, it's fairly simple what I do.However, I'm taking a big risk.It doesn't matter, I have to be a hero and maintain my posture, even if I lose my status.I will read my reply to Marcel Drouin this morning and copy a copy for preservation. Yesterday, I went to see the art exhibition with Roujal.The paintings of Gauguin, Van Gogh, and Cézanne are very beautiful.But yesterday was so angry, I felt quite tired.A show I think should be seen to please De Max (who plays Claude Frollo).I asked Johann Schellenberg to go with me and ask him to help me through this drama.But he is in the future for some reason. In the first half hour of the performance, the plot was so false and ridiculous that I wanted to slap the faces of the people around me, I'm afraid I couldn't even watch a scene; and De Max didn't appear on the stage until nine or ten.Well done indeed, giving the exaggerated and odiously comical character a lifelike presence.I couldn't sit still any longer and left immediately after he came on. Heavy and exhausted, it is better to simply stop writing.Moreover, what I want to interrupt is not the work, but the various livelihoods during the day.Re-examining the "Prodigal Son" part I wrote last night: There are very few changes to be made, and I am no doubt satisfied. After reading Suarez's book for an hour, I was very disappointed: this man's thinking is artificial and noble.Religious linguistic purity.What does it matter to me knowing that his book was finished on Good Friday?What does he mean by that?A book like his is but a collection of scattered essays. Only the part about Goethe and Pascal, which I liked quite a bit; Suárez said some extravagant things, well said, and at first glance I thought they were right.However, now that I think about it carefully, I deeply think that this view of Goethe is the easiest to form; I have experienced this stage myself, and it is from this view that I am I started to really move forward on the road of culture. If I stop practicing for a few days, the most beautiful movement will be played by me, and I will feel lacking in emotion. —The importance of musical instruments; once you get hold of a good instrument, you will find yourself using it and showing new dexterity.A fine pen, a quarter of my talents. Utilities may create implements; but once created, implements invite man to perform their functions. The House of Charles Gides had just experienced another burst of arrogance.After a bit of bragging (about my play being performed in Berlin), Lafcadio asked for his luck, and that night he got an awl in the thigh.And this happened right in front of Paul!How many times have I looked for my cruelest scalpel to cut open the same abscess on his body and squeeze out the pus.How easy it would be for him to retaliate against me today.I like his generosity and doesn't treat me that way at all. However, as soon as I stepped out of Charles Gide's house, I felt a tightness in my cheeks, as if I were going to swallow the words I had said. However absurd my behavior may be in this respect, I can explain it: I feel that I do not have enough credit, that I am going to impose it so clumsily that I lose it even if I had it; Everything is exaggerated and everything is lost. Fortunately, most of the time, my contemptuous and contemptuous attitude avoided this panic.With this sense of dignity alone, I can forever avoid a state of panic. The administrator De Zhounai, during a hunting process, told Edward the following incident: "Hey! Mademoiselle Marie (our old nurse), she's a very clever lady! One morning, when I came into the kitchen, she beckoned me over: 'Come and see, Monsieur de Zhounay,' she said, She led me to the foot of the kitchen stairs, and on the bottom step there were shoes to be polished: 'Look at the shoes of your friends, sir!' Then she pointed out to me: There is a shoe The heel is off, another is missing a sole, and one has a mouth in the front... Hey! She's smart enough, Miss Mary!" Finished The Prodigal Son a few days ago.The idea of ​​this poem suddenly sprouted in Berlin, and I started immediately, and the first idea was followed by implementation.I feared that if I had been gestating longer, I would have seen the subject swell and deform; in short, I was tired of not writing anymore, and all the other subjects I had in mind would be difficult to tackle immediately. As a result, this article "The Prodigal Son" took me about fifteen days from conception to completion. I spent another week revising it.Between Druane and Copper, like "A Man Between Two Mistresses," I'd rather put in the work of finalizing that. Today I read this passage in Bruneau's "History of the French Language": "Corneille and Racine accepted the rules, but they did not make the rules. If it is said that as time goes by, their talents reach a certain level. Height has become a language authority, but they had to carefully consider every word and sentence; carefully revise the manuscript, one is to satisfy Fu Rila, and the other is to respect Father Buur, the master of exquisite language. ("Preface", p. 15.) I'm still not sure if I did the right thing by conceding to Coppel on this point: he thinks lui Parler is wrong.Indeed, I found no basis for anything in the literary dictionary, but this sentence: "Whoever wants to speak to his father should speak to me.—I can easily speak to him without you." There is no other way of expressing it. Forget it, I'll modify it. Went to Notre-Dame yesterday to listen to Abbe Jeanvier's sermon.We are having dinner with Roval.We were disappointed by the poor lighting of Notre-Dame, but by no means did Abbe Jean Viert disappoint us, and we listened to it without weary or weariness.His constant political allusions made his speeches lively.Bonnie de Castellane sat a few rows ahead of us, listening to the instruction of his duty.Theme of the discourse:—Sins of ignorance.The necessity of learning, that is, learning to recognize.what!How beautiful it is!We hurried to lock up Galileo. Go to Paul, I promised to go with him to see Bull's "The Rudder" (at the Jamier Theater).A costly night for no gain.Still, the script was entertaining and exceeded my hopes.De Max does a good job, even in the ironic scene in the third act. Too bad, I shouldn't and Paul went to see him again after the show.We drank drinks on the patio of a café, serving as mediocre, disgusting escorts dragged by De Max.Wang Dula suddenly appeared.Pavel was annoyed and "forced to meet her again".meaningless.It was such a waste of time that it made me angry.I hope this feeling lasts for a long time. Never had the vulgarity of the conversation pained me so much; what was more, I had to be funny and force a smile. "A farmer saw a parrot on the fence, and wanted to catch it; he moved close, took off his hat, and tried to snap it on. But the parrot said, 'Hello, Jacob.' The farmer was bewildered; and said: 'Oh! I'm sorry, sir, but I took you for a bird!'" "I like this story very much," exclaimed the little girl, who laughed like a bell every time De Max said a word. Here, I also want to record this "fabricated story", peddled by Xiao Nuo, which is of much higher quality: "Two little furry boys wandering up and down the avenue of woods. A fancy carriage drove by. 'Did you see that woman?' said the older one. 'I tell you, boy, I could have kissed her yesterday.' 'Do you know her?' 'No, but I'm getting hard.'" I told Marcel this morning, and he was amused. "This example is very good. It can explain the difference between can and may in English," he said. ... So, I took Yalu and Miomundel and took them to at home.We went into my study, and found that I had nothing to say to them, and nothing to learn from them.I have read Jarrou's book, and I don't think it is bad; but when I want to talk to him, I turn around and reserve it, showing both my frankness and the refinement of my critical taste.Then, somehow and for no reason—like Myskine, terrified of breaking the vase, drawing nearer, subject to absurd fate—I threw Suarez on the rug (difficult subject, I knew we Can't agree).The letter I had just written to Maucleur about Suarez had been in my pocket for three days, and Miomundel immediately gave it to me, not knowing his address.Unfortunately, I'm a bit pretentious about writing this letter, especially if I dare to write it.I also suddenly had a desire to show off.Well!I can't help it.And the letter was not sealed.I fully felt my fallacies and mistakes, holding this letter paper with trembling hands, stuttering every sentence.I read it with great difficulty, with sweat on my brow, and with all my strength, pausing to look at the terrible effect of reading the letter, while my mind was completely clear; ... So the night passed; and now I feel like asking for trouble.The smallest mistake in this bad business, that I have restrained so far, has not sent the letter; the greatest harm that has been done to me, is that it has occupied and clogged my mind for so long. I write all of this for the sake of the lesson, mainly that you should be tough on yourself.Because, I've come to know my eccentricity deeply: it's an absurd need to hand over my old self to anyone, unarmed and defenseless. Went to listen to Strauss last night.Gaion tells us again this quote from Madame Strauss (from Ville-Grivan), who felt that the Parisian audience had not responded warmly enough to her husband's work: "Really, with a bayonet It's time to come here again." Maybe it's a rumor... Abominable romantic music, a pompous orchestral music that makes one love Bellini.There are only a few parts that show great "talent": the funny (several Doctors) or morbid scenes, the hesitation with which Herodias asks Salome to dance, and the almost overall performance of the character Herodias.Russell also noticed the brilliance of Hugo's burlesque;--and "The Conjuring"--for the same reason.The same reason for the flaws: indiscretion of means and monotonous, tedious rendering of effects, blatant insincerity; constant mobilization of all means.Hugo is like this, so is Wagner. They want to express a kind of thought. Once all kinds of metaphors are born in the mind, they will give us all without any choice.This fundamental non-artism.Invariably exaggerated, and so on.Not even a flaw worth reviewing.Simply oppose this work and wait for the bayonet to come, because this kind of art is indeed. ... Bloom's book "On Marriage" has attracted many reviews.At a tea party at Lerolle's house, Marcel Derouin and Fontaine's dialogue formed a comment that was far above the average level; there is no doubt that after a book is published, it can arouse lively discussions. should never be ignored.Yet this concern for happiness, which is the only definite and consistent one, offends me.I see little evidence that man, conceived of in its gratification in the lightest and least laborious terms, can be so ennobled that I love and admire it.And not to mention women! !The most beautiful images of women I have ever known are of the docile type; I cannot even imagine that a woman's satisfaction, if her happiness does not include a little docility, can still please me and not be in my heart. Arouse some hostility. Quattro giorni fa, visit Marly at Maillol's, dinner at Valeri's on return.The dinner was a delight, always the same, and the Valérys were lovely.There was also at the table a fat, stupid fellow whom Roir had introduced to me, named for some reason: .His jawbone jutted forward, extended by a goatee that looked as if it had descended from the pediment of Aegina.When he said it, he gritted his teeth and clenched his fist, showing a fierce look, always throwing out the most stupid aphorisms with the utmost viciousness.He said: "Art? It's a vice." He whistled: "No, the day before yesterday, I bought forty paintings by Varta at once; this is a vice!" He also said: "The Catholic Church puts this The earth becomes a gigantic hollow spinning top." On religious issues, he had his own opinions, and after dinner he talked with me about metaphysics, to be more precise, about theology.He said, "Greeks! Greeks!" and that was enough.Already at dinner everyone heard (but he addressed the lady, in a slightly mocking tone): "Naturality of religion ... yes! ... or natural religion ... whichever ... or both It's a little...isn't it, Mrs. Gide...?" My wife pretended not to hear. The beast, he still paints, on wood, because he's so crazy the brush will tear the canvas.I'm stuck on the last punchline. I convinced him that I was very much like him. (He says: "Church," and then, for clarity, adds: "Ecclesia!" He says: "What we lack today is a cult, a cultus; a liturgy..." Then, no doubt, without thinking相应的拉丁语词或希腊语词，就只好再说一遍：“礼拜仪式”，将其中的r音拖长一点儿。） 这本讨厌的书，花费了我多大气力，现在是第四次全部重新写了。当今那些即兴大写家又该大惊小怪，说这是才尽或者怪癖。今天我差不多也要随他们大溜了。然而，经过巨大的努力，将近傍晚时分，我认为重又启动了这个未定形的庞然大物。 钢琴昨天运到。很好地练习了肖邦出色的《序曲》，我全都过了一遍。 每当“成功”靠近我，我就冲它做鬼脸。 记得1891年就已经出现过这种情况： 当时我和皮埃尔·路易，我想是去“达古尔”餐馆用晚餐，遇见了雷特。雷特开口就大肆赞扬《安德烈·瓦尔特笔记》，书刚刚出版，他“看完了”。我听见他的话：“这是十二（或二十）本重要的书之一，即从……”我当即起身，将我的风衣挂到远处一点儿，丢下雷特和他那含在口中的半句恭维话。等我回身重又坐下时，皮埃尔·路易俯过身来，对着我的耳朵说：“老弟，人家称赞你的时候，你至少可以听一听。你这样就好像给吓跑了。”一点儿不差。今天仍然如此。也许自尊心太强；还担心是应酬的空话。恭维者马上接受了警告，就不会再来碰钉子了。 六月二十九日，回复莫里斯·德尼的便函，关于布鲁姆的书，我写下这样一段话，但认为还是明智一点儿，决不发寄给他： 对，布鲁姆的书可能造成损害……读者要在书中寻求的，主要不是一种“新的启示”，而是一种，因为这一问题在我看来，多半属于道德领域，而不是社会学范畴。这本书，起初我潦潦草草地看两眼，后来听别人议论，而我情况不明就一言不发，实在觉得尴尬，便仔仔细细地重读了。现在我可以向布鲁姆本人表明，书中的观点我一直感到多么陌生： 这一论著将“幸福”当作目的推荐给人，将幸福关进内室，并声称提供了驯服它的一种诀窍。 这本书好似当今整个犹太戏剧的一篇灵巧的序言，它的所有论述再怎么典型，再怎么精美，也还是完全无视顺从和束缚的价值，更有甚者，还导致这样的结论： 果树只有在，才能结出累累果实，或者结出的果实更甜美。 写了信并抄录在下面，投寄之前，我重读雅姆的信，发现它比我最初的感觉要美，——甚至不乏温情。因此，我拟好的信也不付邮了。 Dear friends: 总该承认，思想是我的果实，犹如诗是你的花朵——一种自然产物。须知我的果实往往带有芳香，而你对芳香十分敏感，不用品尝，往往就能闻到香味。 怀着十足的善意，我能够理解，你的《帕吕德》。请你还要承认，你在我的作品中感到的浮泛的空论，却浸透了血和泪——而我的头脑如一颗心似的抖动…… 我寄出的是这封信： 我亲爱的朋友： 再次捧读，我进一步理解你的信热情而真挚之美，但愿你不会受你不喜欢的部分的妨碍，理解我的《浪子》，不亚于其他可能更喜爱它的人。 不错，你讲得很好，这并不是一个自爱的人简单的思想游戏，练习如何利用自己。感情的考验我是免去了，但是你读我这本书时明显地感到，我的头脑能像心脏一样拼搏。就是你的《帕吕德》，而这些萦绕心头挥之不去的思想，如果我吃透了你的意思的话，你是比作耶稣荆冠上的刺： 这样的思想对我来说，恰如中，令人愕然的“外部对话”对你的意义。希望你的手不时轻轻拿起这顶荆冠，以便在覆盖它的灰烬下面，还能认出这张面孔，正是你的安·纪。 我不过是一个寻开心的小男孩——又是一个令他讨厌的新教牧师。 我在科马伊街自己的房间写日记，用的是安娜·沙克勒顿的小桌子。当年，我就在这张小写字台上做功课的，它镶了两面镜子，因而我很喜爱，能看见自己在上面写字，每写完一句就抬头瞧一瞧自己；镜中的影子跟我说话，听我讲，陪伴我，让我保持满腔热忱的状态。后来，我再也没有在这个位子上写过东西。这几天晚上，我又找回童年的感觉。 今天上午出了银行，去看过德·马克斯。（金钱的问题，从前令我兴奋，而今天却使我沮丧；我几乎随意发了几个指令，出于要折腾的怪癖。）——看望德·马克斯没有什么可写的。——下午睡觉，给索尔玛写信，出去办事，在牙医门前遇见马塞尔，同他一道回欧特伊。今晚用来写。 又忙得不可开交。昨天从早晨工作到午后两点钟，给哈格南写信，为他的热忱提供方便和支持。他谈到要将我的作品介绍给柏林公众。他讲得好。我开始厌倦了： 一旦没有巨大的热忱支持我了，我就开始挣扎。受伤害的自尊心，从来没有给我什么有价值的东西，但是有时，我的自豪感的确因绝望而痛苦。有些日子，我就像生活在噩梦中，仿佛活活被封在坟墓里的一个人。这种窘况，亲身尝到了，也值得认识清楚。这种状态，等我以后摆脱了再写不迟。 没有柏林方面的消息，我的剧应该在二十八日之前演出。 我想到凯茨，觉得有两三位如我这样的热情赞赏者，就会使他活下去。努力也徒劳，有时我就感到，自己完全在沉默。 马塞尔·吉贝尔去世，前往波城奔丧。 “我的朋友，”克洛岱尔对雅姆说，“在上帝的爱中生活了多少年之后，如您所知，我又坠入这个女人的情网，就好像走出山间纯净的湖泊，又陷入只能洗脚的地方。” 除了在巴涅尔那几天，所有夜晚他都在我的怀抱中入睡，瓦朗蒂娜说道。我看他睡着了才放下来，只拉着他的手。现在，我整夜寻找他。我很清楚，他总想到死，而我却不相信，想象不出我们会永远分开。 在我连襟的葬礼上，继而又在奥尔泰兹见到雅姆。 我不得不和莱翁·卡弗尔“带领”送殡队伍。葬礼十分排场，非常好看；只演奏葬礼音乐，我百听不厌。 弥撒结束时，当地一位女子，一位嬷嬷，跪到与信徒唱诗班相隔的栏杆前。主祭将一块台布铺在石栏杆上，递给她圣体饼，她便吃下，那种虔诚的神态令人赞佩。我相信她是遵照当地的一种美好的习俗，在为我们所有人领圣体，因而我的整个灵魂都倾注在她那举动中。后来我听说，谁都可以参加这种弥撒后的领圣体，次日在另一场葬礼弥撒之后，三十名信徒领了圣体。比起那么一群人来，这单独一个美妙的形象、多么更加感人啊！ 在那里，在巴尼奥尔，又见到欧仁·鲁瓦尔，又找回我的不安、我的好奇、我的感奋。 一周前我有了一台打字机，在皮埃尔·德·拉努身上，找到一个要当秘书的人。从而有了纪律、热情、工作的规律性、道德化，等等。在我写下这段的时候，打字机为我打出四份，我就加紧定稿。第一章又耗费我半个月，但是现在令我满意了。 读书很少，头脑几乎完全被我的书占据了。这本日记也因此放了一阵。接着又一连几天，我埋头加工这第一章。 安德烈·吕伊特来这里住一周。他早晨八点钟就去银行，吃晚饭时才回来。晚上吃罢饭，我们又上街到普赛餐厅，去找盖翁、科波和若望·施伦贝格。盖翁犹豫半晌，还是掏出手稿（《少年》的头一百页）；我们躲进一家下等小酒馆里端一小间里，尽管隔壁喧闹，还是静静地聆听了盖翁声调平稳地念稿： 作为小说家的盖翁，多么不同于写出《烧酒》或的盖翁。——给我们所有人极好的印象。 五天后，又在欧特伊聚会，原班人马，只少科波一人。我迟疑再三，最后才鼓起勇气念。首先稿子还极不完善，头两章有几处尚未定型，有几分模糊，总之念得相当沉闷……这本书，我写起来极为艰难的地方，他们听起来也相当艰涩（我主要想到盖翁）： 在时间上，它同我们今天所想、所感和所需错位了。无所谓： 我不能不写；而我从这次有点失面子的考验中走出来，并没有气馁，而是更加坚定了。 斯丹达尔的书信。 斯丹达尔对我从来就不是一种食物，然而我总是反复接触。这是我的乌贼骨，我在上面把我的喙磨尖利了。 《628—E8》。大家议论米尔博的心理状态，以及左拉的自然主义或现实主义，因为他们两个都恬不知耻，谈论人们所隐藏的事。应当承认，这种事，他们谈得比其他事要好，——比所有人都谈论的事要好。最成功的篇章，就是他最大限度保持谈话的口气和节奏的篇章；在这个意义上，有些篇章近乎完美： 这种东西从来不会提升得更高。他气愤填膺，又欢欣鼓舞，别人不大明白为什么，而坦率地讲，我情愿相信，他就像个爱发脾气的孩子，这是他身上最好的东西。他不假思索，兴头一上来就写，记下他的颤抖，好似一个地震仪记录震动。他身上的讽刺精神，完全阻塞了批评精神。 《业余爱好者的对话》，古尔蒙着意要表现自己的聪明，反而不断地胡说八道了。我能想象得出来，他强加于人是何道理，许多读者不敢分庭抗礼，惟恐自以为不如他聪明。这样害怕上当受骗，简直蠢透了！在乔治·隆多和保尔·纪德身上，我就看到了这种可悲的苦果。 他谈论文学，并笼统谈论“精神的东西”，还是相当内行的，品味也往往很高——（例如： 关于浪漫主义和拉塞尔的对话就很精彩）——然而，他一涉及酗酒、品德、犯罪行为，等等，就信口开河了，表明他纯粹是通过书本了解生活的。 “不管怎样，不应该进苦役犯监狱而被送进去，应当说有点残忍。” “那么罪有应得、就不怎么残忍了吗？真的罪有应得吗？有罪和无辜，又根据什么呢？根据偶然性。”如此等等。 瞧这个人，居高临下表达观点！是这个问题吗？不管正确与否，社会确立了规则，公民违反了就得受法律的制裁。说这些规则是专断的，不错！说违反规则的人是无辜者、受害者、圣徒、傻瓜，根本就没有说到点子上，而古尔蒙谈论这些，摆出高人一等的架势，就好像附庸风雅的人跳完小步舞，说其他跳舞的人：“这些人扭动得还蛮不错的嘛！”——可是，孩子，他从来就没有玩过吗？听见别人错误地指责自己作了弊，他心里从来就没有难过吗？或者，他已经回敬他的伙伴们：“什么叫作弊？人难道还作弊吗？”等等，等等。不过，老实说，他从来就没有过伙伴，而且一向是独自一个人赌。