will speak--see, and then speak? To speak is the same thing as to
see, but it is more. Speech perpetuates vision. We carry no light; we
are things of shadow, for night closes our eyes, and we put out our
hands to find our way when the light is gone; we only shine in speech;
truth is made by the mouths of men. The wind of words--what is it? It
is our breath--not all words, for there are artificial and copied ones
which are not part of the speaker; but the profound words, the cries.
In the human cry you feel the effort of the spring. The cry comes out
of us, it is as living as a child. The cry goes on, and makes the
appeal of truth wherever it may be, the cry gathers cries.

There is a voice, a low and untiring voice, which helps those who do
not and will not see themselves, a voice which brings them together,
Books--the book we choose, the favorite, the book you open, which was
waiting for you!

Formerly, I hardly knew any books. Now, I love what they do. I have
brought together as many as I could. There they are, on the shelves,
with their immense titles, their regular, profound contents; they are
there, all around me, arranged like houses.

* * * * * *

Who will tell the truth? But it is not enough to say things in order
to let them be seen.

Just now, pursued by the idea of my temptation at the War Museum, I
imagined that I had acted on it, and that I was appearing before the
judges. I should have told them a fine lot of truths, I should have
proved to them that I had done right. I should have made myself, the
accused, into the prosecutor.

No! I should not have spoken thus, for I should not have known! I
should have stood stammering, full of a truth throbbing within me,
choking, unconfessable truth. It is not enough to speak; you must know
words. When you have said, "I am in pain," or when you have said, "I
am right," you have said nothing in reality, you have only spoken to
yourself. The real presence of truth is not in every word of truth,
because of the wear and tear of words, and the fleeting multiplicity of
arguments. One must have the gift of persuasion, of leaving to truth
its speaking simplicity, its solemn unfoldings. It is not I who will
be able to speak from the depths of myself. The attention of men
dazzles me when it rises before me. The very nakedness of paper
frightens me and drowns my looks. Not I shall embellish that whiteness
with writ