I have had Many More Ideas for the Betterment of the Republic it has Been Borne upon me That I should publish them In a Little Chapbook with, perhaps, gold Lettering. Then All who Contemplate the fate of nations Shall Read for their enlightening how, I Envision the Classical Future and the perfect Practice of Liberty.
For Instance there shall Be a great number of Ceremonial Marriages and the Keeping of doves shall be a Action much Encouraged and, men Shall spend 1/3 of their Lives by the Sea catching Small Fish and embroidering sailcloths. And Too there will be many other Activities.
afternoon morning I went for a walk along the banks of the Seine. As the river is somewhat cleaner than it once was, though it remains unsuitable for any sort of baptismal festivities, of course, I had expected the walk to be restful. Instead I was pursued by a flock of geese. They couldn't do me any real damage but it is not restful to be savaged by birds. If I had ectoplasm, it would be all a-shiver still.
How nostalgic one gets for summer. White wine breathing in glasses, and green leaves on the chestnut trees.
Speaking of my own inestimable contributions to Liberty, Fraternity, and, you know, other things: I came across a straw-bottomed chair in a café recently. The urge struck me-- a speech was starting, at the very tips of my fingers. I could feel it forming, gloriously. The trouble isn't, of course, at the tips of my fingers...
The darkest point of winter has gone; the knife's edge lies behind us. Still it is cold, so cold that one's phantom flesh seems to shape itself still and gelid as a sheet of ice about one's thoughts. Frost clouds the window panes. I patient myself, waiting for the sun. But for now there is this mist, this haze; I would that I could see clearly.
The one great advantage of this new era in which one finds oneself is, unquestionably, the riot of fruit that comes packed in truckloads-- shipped, one imagines, from Africa and the Indies. All winter long, the glow of pebbled oranges. The papery rind, and then the pulp: sweet, if one could eat it. Though I can't, of course. Eat it, I mean. In the yellow light of all these supermarché sections I go wandering, almost, at times, hungry...
Really, citizens. All this silence is most unbecoming.
For my part, I have no excuse, save that I have no especial wish to hasten certain reunions. And that I find quite enough by way of diversion without resorting to an excess of silly words
; that's what I keep Camille for. However, it is an unusually tedious Sunday morning, and I am not nearly so drunk as I might have hoped. What is the point?
In a few weeks, it will be Camille's birthday. I suggest that we dunk him in the Seine once for every year he has spent in suspended existence. Perhaps David -- whom, I must say, it has been wonderful to see up and about after all this time -- would like to charge himself with whatever preparations he finds most suitable to the grand occasion.
Citizen Robespierre, if you should find your way back Home from the recesses of this peculiar Metaphysical world, I shall be waiting where there used to Be a yard, with little white Flowers and the Smell of cut wood. I will wait Where they used to open the doorway and Where you would come, when You were well, descending the staircase with Hat in hand and walk out into the wide expanse of Light. Now Though the world is Awash in that same Light I Cannot see the streets of the Republic so I shall wait Here on the floorboards covering the Concrete covering the Stones covering the ground, the earth that Was.
I certainly feel I've been missing out!
Some kindly patriot should help to bring me up to date!
Well, well, well. Like any good patriot, I have been celebrating our sadly defunct sans-culottides as fully as possible, by which I mean, of course, by drinking as much wine as possible. I must say, it tasted better when they still used lead barrels.
Such is the price one must pay for safer, more hygienic modernity.
It is now -- barely -- la Fête du Génie, which makes me think of Fabre. I feel that I have given sufficient voice to my opinions in the past that I needn't call the aforementioned talent into question just presently. Indeed, it would be strange to find myself thinking of him at all if I had happened to have seen him more recently; one's memory, as ever, turns most naturally to the absent. This reassures me that he must still be himself.
I remark the date simply because yesterday was a different Fête entirely, although I doubt that anyone performed any particularly virtuous acts in its name. I hope, of course, that everyone is nevertheless enjoying our little holiday stretch. It is almost Opinion Day, so I shall have to see if I still possess any.