It was a time I slept in many rooms, called myself by many names. I wandered through the quarters of the city like alluvium wanders the river banks. I knew every kind of joy, ascents of every hue. Mine was the twilight and the morning. Mine was a world of rooftops and love songs.
Atunci am înțeles că nimic nu durează în suflet, că cea mai verificată încredere poate fi anulată de un singur gest, că cele mai sincere posesiuni nu dovedesc niciodată nimic, căci și sinceritatea poate fi repetată, cu altul, cu alții, că, în sfârșit, totul se uită sau se poate uita.
After joyfully working each morning, I would leave off around midday to challenge myself to a footrace. Speeding along the sunny paths of the Jardin du Luxembourg, ideas would breed like aphids in my head - for creative invention is easy and sublime when air cycles quickly through the lungs and the body is busy at noble tasks.
I know a girl from whose body sunbeams rose to the clouds as if they’d fallen from the sun.
Her laugh was like a bangle of bells.
“Your hair is wet,” I told her one day, “Did you take a bath?”
“It is dew!” she laughed, “I’ve been lying in the grass. All morning long, I lay here waiting for the dawn.