“Phenomena are signs that make up a language — the language of the desires that lie behind phenomena. Only desires matter, and they must be understood.
“To understand is nothing, but to be understood — that is the problem and the source of anguish. The soul throbs and would have the other know — but can not and feels isolated. Then come gestures, words, awkward explanations and material symbols for imponderable outbursts of feeling — and the soul despairs.
“Nor is that anything. The worst suffering is that of two souls unable to approach each other. Thou hast built a wall around me to prevent my going out (Jeremiah).
“They hug the wall that keeps their courses parallel, and they collide and bruise each other.”
“Neither words nor gestures give shape to thought — they proceed from the frivolous mind. But the inflection of an excited voice, the lines on the face, especially the look — these are the eloquence of the soul. Through them the soul finds expression. They must be studied, dominated, made into docile interpreters.
“I study them in front of a looking glass. They would have laughed if they had seen me looking into my own eyes and, by night, becoming almost hypnotized by the changes undergone by dark pupils as I searched for the outward manifestation of emotions through sparkling or sorrowful looks, for the alignment or narrowing of the eyebrows and the wrinkles on the brow that should accompany words of passion, of elation, of sorrow.…
“Comedian? Perhaps.… But I play myself, and the roles best played are those best understood.”42
“Then it becomes painful never to lose sight of myself while searching anxiously for the word, the gesture, especially the look arid the inflection of the voice which will best reveal the secret emotions of my soul.
“Often preoccupation over appearing to be excited supplants the genuine emotion. Many times I have been with you, Emmanuèle, and felt the true, spontaneous emotion vanish under the attempt to force it to the surface.
“Suffering consists in being unable to reveal oneself and, when one happens to succeed in doing so, in having nothing more to say.”
To understand each other is nothing. What matters is a mating of our souls.
“I need to caress someone. My repressed caresses have not been restricted to one person but lavished on everyone. My caress is an embrace; I tend instinctively to embrace others.”
The sad part, and the part that has caused me to suffer acutely, is that the soul can reveal its tenderness only through caresses which are signs of unchaste desires. The soul is mistaken, deluded.… And then in me the gesture awakened the thought.…
I must remain frigid in order that there be no mistake, even on the part of my soul … for sometimes.… I must simply clasp and release her hand, bid her goodnight without the kiss of peace. My heart may quiver — but imperceptibly and not violently.
“Loving, adoring, impassioned caresses — I am obsessed by the act of caressing. I would like an all-absorbing, all-encompassing caress, or complete oblivion of self, which constitutes ineffable ecstasy. That is why I suffer so much in the presence of the beauty of statues, for then my being does not blend with theirs but contrasts with it.
… Quoniam nihil inde abradere possunt,
Nee penetrate et abire in corpus corpore toto.
“A little flesh is still infused by virtue of the transparency of the marble. The desire to possess torments me and I suffer piteously, both physically and spiritually, through awareness of the impossibility of possession. I am corrupted, not intoxicated, by the sight of the Thorn Puller, Apollo, the mutilated torso of Diana Reposing.
Nec satiare queunt spectando corpora coram.
“And I suffer still when I think that they will never feel my caresses.
Superfluous, implacable splendor,
O beauty, what pain you cause me!
Impossible union of souls through bodies
… tormented by an embrace.
“Here is the strange part, and the part that has caused me to suffer so much. The soul blends in with everything else, and it becomes impossible to determine whether it harbors desire or whether the flesh is disguised as reverence. So insistently is the soul pushed toward the mysterious bed.…
A caress comes to an end, is ephemeral,
My soul stirs at the sound of a kiss.…
“Et non erat qui cognosceret me … Nor the others, for souls can not know each other. The courses followed by those who are most nearly alike are still PARALLEL.
“So you see that I do not desire you. Your body disturbs me and carnal possession frightens me. We do not love each other according to the dictates of rational love. You could never belong to me, for the things that we long for are never possessed.”43
12 June
A letter from Pierre and some books. He writes of Paris, of the struggle and of some early triumphs.… Farewell to philosophical calm; this gust of feverish air intoxicates me and rouses dormant visions of glory. My ambitions were slumbering in solitude, but now they have been awakened. Everything militates against my secluded life: a flurry of excitement, of preparations back there. I shall arrive too late for everything.44
The letter is really good for me. My pride is cut to the quick but I am not defeated. The lash that brings the blood gives me the energy to run even faster. Oh, how strong I feel!
I shall arrive suddenly, without warning, and blow a loud trumpet blast — or perhaps remain unknown but hear my work acclaimed (for I shall withhold my name).45
I must work frantically, dishonestly. I shall leave here only after the work is finished. And to avoid further disturbances, I am having my mail sent to an imaginary place.
His writing is perfect — callously, impeccably, inexorably so. This discourages me, for to me my language was still fluid and boundless. I wanted to give it rhythmic contours — but emotion always made the sentence explode, and I set down only the debris.
The books are by Verlaine, and I did not know him!
This evening, even though the hour was late, I trimmed and stacked the paper that Pierre sent with the books. The sight of white paper intoxicates me. The black signs which I may use to cover them, which will reveal my thoughts and which when reread later will recall today’s emotions.
I could not sleep because my simmering thoughts were so uncontrollable. I felt the pressure of latent creative forces. Inspiration became something tangible, and the vision of my work was as dazzling as if the work had already been completed. What splendors of aureoles, what flashes of dawn! Then my burning brow, my grandeur stunned me — disorganized thoughts — the feeling of stumbling, a fall — something on the verge of breaking.… Oh, loss of sanity! Suddenly, piously, gripped by indescribable terror, I made a supreme effort to protect my mind and my vision against sudden destruction.
“Forgive me, Lord,” I prayed. “I am but a child, a small child lost on a treacherous byway. O Lord, keep me safe and sane!”46
Let style and mood blend. And since this is not plastic art, let music exert its influence. Why not even a strophe?
Put your hand in mine, and let our fingers join,
Put your chin on my shoulder, and let our hearts beat as one,
Let your brow come to rest and let your eyes merge with mine.
But let us stop short of a kiss, for fear that love will intervene.
Let us not speak but listen to the singing of your soul