Such a healthy, simple, approving glance as if he were saying to himself: Ah, spring is coming! And God knows, when spring comes to Paris the humblest mortal alive must feel that he dwells in paradise.
I saw through to the last sign and symbol, but I could not read her face. I could see only the eyes shining through, huge, fleshy-like luminous beasts, as though I were swimming behind them in the electric effluvia of her incandescent vision.
Since then, of course, I have discovered what every madman in Paris discovers sooner of later; that there are no ready made infernos for the tormented.
If you were married to a dipsomaniac, would you pretend that the mania for alcohol was perfectly harmless?
In Europe one gets used to doing nothing. You sit on your ass and whine all day. You get contaminated. You rot.
For the moment I can think of nothing— except that I am a sentient being stabbed by the miracle of these waters that reflect a forgotten world.