Everything around us is lower: life is a descending slope or
a low-lying plain next to the elevation and pinnacle we’ve become.
I’ve dreamed a great deal.
To say.
The sincerity of intellectual affirmation has nothing
to do with the naturalness of spontaneous emotion.
Perhaps,
deep down,
it is the soul’s dissatisfaction because we didn’t give it a belief,
the disappointment of the sad child.
But in art there is no disillusion,
since illusion is accepted from the start.
There everything is feeble,
anonymous and gratuitous.
I have special chambers,
remembered by someone else in the intersticies of my imagining,
where I take delight in analysing what I don’t feel,
and I examine myself like a picture in a dark corner.
The moonlight made ponds out of the clearings
that sprang into view along our aimless path
and their branch-tangled shores were more night than the night itself.
To conceive of myself from the outside was my ruin—the ruin of my happiness.
But this doesn’t really amuse me much,
because playwrights are always making the same trite and glaring errors.
Today you are but a profile,
created out of this book,
a moment made incarnate and separated from other moments.