take possession of this morning of utter unreserve;
memory might distort it. And may memory never say: "This was the day of
your birth and you were excited."

I am not unduly excited.... The present is always very simple. The sun
is only an iridescent frolic, which flits and laughs without resting on
the chapped bark of the pines.

This moment--this and none other--is made up of my robust body, the
lullaby rustle of the wind-stirred leaves, the fragrance of resinous
wood, the screech of a great bird, and the sky cleft by its black and
white passage.

No illumination or help from elsewhere. Slowly, gropingly, by great
effort, I arrive at lukewarm moments in which it is as though my head
were leaning on my heart. Am I going to _know_ at last and make up my
mind? But when I put my hand on my breast, everything collapses and I
have to begin all over again.

It is because there is an empty past which rings to the touch like an
empty bowl, a lack of practice which benumbs your arms, a sort of
shame.... You don't attain to your real truth at the first attempt.

And then above all--you must be honest with yourself--you don't seek
your true self with a _constant_ heart; far oftener you try to distract
your mind from the thought of it. About me on the ground are patches of
light, and I am simply bent upon catching them. I stretch out my hand,
stoop down, put my cheek to them, they quiver and vanish; in their place
a piercing warmth steals dancing over my face.

Then, without my having done anything and without my being worthy of it,
the sacred mood of revolt returns, lifts me up, and forces me to my
knees; I hear the rising breath of a sudden call....

Is it my life, O God? Whither does it go--answer!--when it develops in a
deep breast, and you approach, again and again, as I am now approaching,
something infinite whose name you seek to know?

II

Will the noise never stop? But there are walls to shut it out.

Let them hop about, shout, dance, amuse themselves. As for me, I have
left them, I am alone in my room, I don't want to see or hear them any
more.

I burrow my head desperately in the dark depths of the cushions. In
vain. The eddying music follows its implacable course, drapes its
arabesques of melody about me, and when I stop my ears, still keeps
whirling round and round.

A mazurka. Who was it begged for a mazurka? Ah yes, I remember. When I
left the group of young girls sitting on the watch, a quivering