Chapter 28 lying man

I've been trying to write a book lately, a title that might as well be called The Liar.To write about a lying man who lies all the time and whoever he talks about about his life is a lie.Before the words were spoken, the lies were already on his lips.He can't even feel the lie.He didn't lie about Baudelaire or about Joyce, he didn't boast about himself or make his adventures believed, he didn't lie.No, he never lies about these things.As for the price of a pullover, a trip on the subway, a movie show time, a meeting with a companion, an unrelated conversation, a menu, a full trip, the names of some known cities, about his family , his mother, his nephew and nephew, he didn't tell the truth, he lied.He did so without any interest whatsoever.At first, that would be maddening.After a few months, people get used to it.

This man is a writer of extraordinary talent.Very sensitive, very funny, very, very charming.He is also a person who is good at words, endowed with rare qualifications.He is of bourgeois origin, as humble and lovely as a prince.Although brought up by his mother's own hands, as a monarch should be, there was little influence on his nature or charm. I say this about him, almost indisputably, because he was a lover, the lover of several women.He had the gift of spotting them, of recognizing them by the very substance of their lust just by looking at them.I've never seen anyone so fascinated by him.That's the aspect I'm talking about, that by that gift he "caught" them, fell in love with them even before they recognized their beauty, their voice.

The woman is the first person in this man's life, and many women know him as soon as she comes close and catches his eyes.As long as he looks at a woman, he is already her lover. In love, he was wild and restrained, terrible and mellow. I have tried many times to write about this man, but when I intended to write about him, this man's lies completely covered him up, including his face and his gaze.Now, unexpectedly, it is possible to start writing. This is the first time. He rented an apartment for himself.He hides inside, avoiding any restraint from his friends, his family.He wanted to be young, enduringly attractive, to live the life of a young man, to eat ham and bread for lunch, and to eat in a restaurant for dinner, with women, all women, French women in winter, young English women in spring.Go to Saint-Tropez in summer.He followed the woman's moving footprints everywhere. Such was the case in 1950, when he decided to live in a passion for women, to the extent that it was painful, dangerous, and necessary, no matter what age he lived.He would rather let them beat him to pieces and become a woman's claw, and he has nothing to lose.His desire must be fulfilled.The women he attracted, only need to take a look on the street once, and they belong to him, and he will never forget them again.When she is the prey of his chosen woman's desire, he will devote himself to her and live in it.The other women then ceased to exist.Dedicated to one and only woman, during which the magical love has great intensity.In this state, he has no choice.With a woman he cannot determine his own desires, nor can he determine, within himself, to act cautiously or to restrain himself.All he has is the ability to desire her and die for it.

①A summer resort not far from Cannes near the Mediterranean Sea in Var, France. What a fine man, the perfect man, perfect in all the senses of the word, forever exhausted to be dying and not dying for it, wishing to die and yearning for that passion just as much.He knew something about himself, but he couldn't live without women.The woman throws him into an unknown tragic emotion.I've seen him in some bars, at night, and when he gets close to certain women, he suddenly turns pale, as if he's about to faint.When he is looking at a certain woman, he forgets about all the other women.Any woman in front of him is like the only last woman.This was the case until his death.

His death took place in Étretat, on a spring day.He didn't die that time, he didn't die because of illness and many nasty taboos.That is, it is strictly forbidden to touch women within two years.No smoking.Sex is forbidden.Kissing is also prohibited.Under these conditions his life was somewhat restored.But myocardial infarction is very serious.Ten years later he finally died of myocardial infarction. ① Etretat is a famous seaside resort in the Seine-Maritimes province in northern France. During those two years he continued to write his book, which he had been writing for years, A Man's Book.The writing is very long, 50 years.The book won him one of France's most important literary awards: the Medici.He was very satisfied with that.

This man said to a mutual friend of ours one day, I think it was when he was dying, that he loved a woman once in his life, persistently.He hadn't lied to her for years, hadn't lied to the only woman.Not intentionally not to lie.Why?He doesn't know either.It happened only once in his life, for a time like no other.a love.Why it had reached such intensity with such a woman and not with another, he did not know. He thought it was not because of him, but probably because of her.He thinks things will probably always be that way.He believes that it is always and always a woman, that depends on a woman's desire, and that desire should be responsible for a couple of lovers.Love, history, everything, depends on the persistence of woman's desire.When a woman's lust ceases, so does a man's desire.In other words, if a man's desire does not end under such circumstances, then he becomes unlucky, regretful, lonely, and dies.

He believes that women and men are fundamentally different in their bodies, their desires, and their shapes, as if they were a completely different creation. He died in a hotel room he rented out for the night.This hotel is close to where I live.Someone said the woman was beautiful, young, brown-haired, green-eyed, like the women in his novels, and she was getting married, and she refused him until that night. She is waiting for him.He arrived late, and he took his time.He also lit a cigarette and smoked.He only started smoking a year ago.He wanted this woman very badly.He had asked her to have a hotel room with him alone for months and months.She finally relented.He was very pale.Excited to be unbearable.Since the last myocardial infarction, every time he saw a new woman, he felt uneasy and afraid of dying.His death lasted only a second.Died suddenly.Not even to say that this is the time to die.Here's what she said.Suddenly she found the man dead by the weight of the flesh, and he was on top of her.She sensed that he was also at that moment.She ran out of the hotel.Passing the hotel desk, she said that someone had died in one of the rooms and that the police should be notified.

The memory is still very clear: he was walking forward on a street, dressed elegantly.You can also see various shades, British leather shoes with iron palms, mustard-colored loose pullovers, and light maroon corduroy trousers.He walks neatly and looks good when he walks, his legs stand firmly, his walking posture is elegant, his body is light and agile, and he is unrestrained.he walks.He is looking forward.His gaze seemed to be empty, half-sleeping, and at this moment, he was actually watching—as soon as his name was spoken, like this, the other appeared: he was looking, he was searching. , he hid himself behind his sight.He was watching the woman who smelled of some kind of perfume under the control of Saumer's boredom in the winter afternoon.

A very young woman came to see me once and asked me to tell her about this man.She was not the woman who went to the hotel.She had just recovered from the tragedy his death had caused her, and she was looking for someone who could tell her at length about this man, so bright, so pure, so wise.I can hardly say anything. We met at a Christmas party, and I was going there that night to see a lover.He took me out of the meeting, but I backed off, I wanted to go back.He was our mutual friend, and in Paris, as now, we knew each other from the beginning, and he always called that friend of mine to tell me that he was waiting for me in a designated café.He waited for me in this cafe for five or six hours every day, facing the street, and sat there for eight days.I resisted not going.I go to the streets every day, but this part of Paris I can't avoid.I was dying in a new love at the time.On the eighth day, when I walked into that cafe again, it was tantamount to going to the guillotine.