The Fruits of the Earth Les Nourritures Terrestres Les Nouvelles Nourritures

ANDRE GIDE

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY DOROTHY BUSSY

1949 Do ot !e "e#eive"$ N%t&% iel$ !' $ (t&e u #o)*ro)isi + title I &%ve t&ou+&t ,it to +ive t&is !oo-. I )i+&t &%ve #%lle" it Me %l#%s$ !ut Me %l#%s &%s ever$ % ' )ore t&% 'oursel,$ e/iste". T&e o l' )% I s %)e t&%t )i+&t &%ve !ee set to it is )' o0 1 !ut t&e &o0 s&oul" I &%ve "%re" si+ it2 I &%ve *ut )'sel, i to it 0it&out %,,e#t%tio or s&%)e1 % " i, so)eti)es I s*e%- i it o, l% "s I &%ve ever visite"$ o, *er,u)es I &%ve ever !re%t&e"$ o, %#tio s I &%ve ever #o))itte"33or o, 'ou$ )' N%t&% iel$ 0&o) I &%ve ot 'et see 3it is ot &'*o#ris'$ % " t&ese t&i +s %re o )ore ,%lse t&% is t&is %)e I #%ll 'ou !'$ ot - o0i + 0&%t 'ours 0ill !e3'ours$ N%t&% iel$ 0&o 0ill o e "%' re%" )e. A " 0&e 'ou &%ve re%" )e$ t&ro0 t&is !oo- %0%' 3% " +o out. M%' it &%ve +ive 'ou t&e "esire to +o out3 to +o out ,ro) 0&erever 'ou )%' !e$ ,ro) 'our to0 $ ,ro) 'our ,%)il'$ ,ro) 'our roo)$ ,ro) 'our t&ou+&ts. Do ot t%-e )' !oo- 0it& 'ou. I, I &%" !ee Me %l#%s$ I s&oul" &%ve le" 'ou !' 'our ri+&t !% "$ !ut 'our le,t 0oul" ot &%ve - o0 it$ % " soo 3%s soo %s 0e 0ere ,%r ,ro) % ' to0 3I s&oul" &%ve let +o t&e &% " I &el" % " tol" 'ou to ,or+et )e. M%' )' !oo- te%#& 'ou to #%re )ore ,or 'oursel, t&% ,or it3% " t&e )ore ,or %ll t&e rest t&% ,or 'oursel,. B4 4 5 I M' i"le &%**i ess t&%t sle*t so lo + Is o0 %t le +t& %0%-i +. H%,i6 Do not hope, Nathaniel, to find God here or there -but everywhere. Every creature points to God none reveals Him. Every creature we let our eye s dwell on distracts us from God. While other people were publishing or wor ing, !, on the contrary, devoted three years of travel to forgetting all that ! had learned with my head. "his unlearning was slow and difficult# it was of more use to me than all the learning imposed by men, and was really the beginning of an education. $ou will never now the efforts it cost us to become interested in life# but now that life does interest us, it will be li e everything else-passionately. ! chastised my flesh gladly, ta ing more pleasure in the chastisement than in the fault-so into%icating was the pride ! too in not sinning simply. &uppress in yourself the idea of merit-one of the mind's great stumbling-bloc s. . . . (ll our life long we have been tormented by the uncertainty of our paths. How can ! put it) (ll choice, when one comes to thin of it, is terrifying* liberty when there is no duty to guide it, terrifying. "he path that has to be chosen lies through a wholly une%plored country, where each one ma es his own discoveries, and

-note this-for himself alone# so that the vaguest trac in the dar est (frica is more easily distinguishable. . . . &hady groves allure us, and the mirage of perennial springs. +r rather, springs will flow where our desires bid them# for the country only comes into e%istence as our approach gives it form, and the landscape about us gradually falls into shape as we advance# we cannot see as far as the hori,on# and even the foreground is nothing but a successive and changeable appearance. -ut why comparisons when the matter is so serious) We all believe we shall eventually discover God. !n the meantime, alas, where are we to address our prayers) (t last we end by saying that He-the .nfindable-is everywhere, anywhere, and neel down at hapha,ard. (nd so, Nathaniel, you are li e the man who should follow as his guide the light he holds in his own hand. Wherever you go, you will never meet with anything but God, /God,/ said 0enalcas, /is what lies ahead of .&. Nathaniel, loo at everything as you pass on your way, but stay nowhere. 1emember thai it is only God who is not transitory. 2et the importance lie in your loo , not in the thing you loo at. (ll your gathered nowledge of what is outside you will remain outside you to all eternity. Why do you attach so much importance to it) "here is profit in desires, and profit in the satisfaction of desires-for so they are increased. (nd indeed, Nathaniel, each one of my desires has enriched me more than the always deceitful possession of the ob3ect of my desire. 0any are the delicious things, Nathaniel, for which ! have been consumed with love. "heir splendor came from my ceaseless burning for them. ! never wearied. (ll fervor consumed me with love-consumed me deliciously. ( heretic among heretics, ! was constantly drawn to the most opposite opinions, the most devious thoughts, the e%tremest divergences. Nothing interested me in a mind but what made it different from others. ! went so far as to forbid myself sympathy, which seemed to me the mere recognition of a common emotion. No, not sympathy, Nathaniel-love. (ct without 3udging whether the action is right or wrong. 2ove without caring whether what you love is good or bad. Nathaniel, ! will teach you fervor. ( harrowing life, Nathaniel, rather than a 4uiet one. 2et me have no rest but the sleep of death. ! am afraid that every desire, every energy ! have not satisfied during my life may survive to torment me. ! hope that after ! have e%pressed on this earth all that was in me waiting to be e%pressed-! hope that ! may die satisfied and utterly hopeless.

No, not sympathy, Nathaniel, love. &urely you understand they are not the same. !t was the fear of losing love that made me sometimes sympathi,e with sorrows, troubles, sufferings that else ! could hardly have borne. 2eave to each one the care of his own life.

5! cannot write today because a wheel is turning in the barn. $esterday ! saw it# it was thrashing col,a. "he chaff blew away# the grain rolled on to the floor. "he dust was suffocating. ( woman was turning the millstone. "wo handsome barefooted boys were collecting the grain. ! weep because ! have nothing else to say. ! now one ought not to begin writing when one has nothing else than that to say.. (nd yet ! have written and ! shall write more again on the same. sub3ect.6 Nathaniel, ! should li e to give you a 3oy that no one else has yet given you. ! do not now how to bestow it and yet that 3oy is mine. ! should li e to spea to you more intimately than anyone has ever yet spo en to you. ! should li e to come to you at that hour of the night when you have opened, o4e,.7aft er the other, and then shut, a great many boo s after loo ing in each one of them for something more than it has ever told you# when you are still e%pectant# when your fervor is about to turn into sadness for want of sustenance. ! write only for you# ! write for you only in those hours. ! should li e to write a boo from which every thought, every emotion of my own would seem to you absent, in -which you would see nothing but the pro3ection of your own fervor. ! should li e to draw near you and ma e you love me.,

0elancholy is nothing but abated fervor. Every creature is capable of na edness# every emotion, of plenitude. 0y emotions flowered in me li e a divine revelation. 8an you understand this-that every feeling is present, infinitely) Nathaniel, ! will teach you fervor. +ur acts are attached to us as its glimmer is to phosphorus. "hey consume us, it is true, but they ma e our splendor. (nd if our souls have been of any worth, it is because they have burned more ardently than others. Great fields washed in the whiteness of dawn, ! have seen you# blue la es, ! have bathed in your waters-and to every caress of the laughing bree,e ! have smiled bac an answer-this is what ! shall never tire of telling you, Nathaniel. ! will teach you fervor. !f ! had nown more lovely things than these, it is of them that ! should have told you-yes, yes, of them and not of any others. $ou have not taught me wisdom, 0enalcas. Not wisdom, but love. ! felt for 0enalcas more than friendship, Nathaniel, and hardly less than love. ! loved him too as a brother. 0enalcas is dangerous# beware of him# wise men condemn him, but children are not afraid of him. He weans them from loving nothing but their own family and teaches them to leave it slowly# he ma es their -hearts sic with longing for fruit that is wild and sour, with curiosity for strange loves. (h, 0enalcas, ! would gladly have traveled with you along many-another path. -ut you hated wea ness, and your claim was to teach me to leave you. "here are strange possibilities in every man. "he present would be pregnant with all futures if the past had not already pro3ected its history into it. -ut, alas, a one and only past can offer us no more than a one and only future-which it casts before us li e an infinite bridge over space. - -7 We can only be sure of never doing what we are incapable of understanding. "o understand is to feel capable of doing. (&&.0E (& 0.8H H.0(N!"$ (& 9+&&!-2E-let this be your motto. 0anifold forms of life# one and all, you appeared beautiful to me. 5"his that ! am saying to you is what 0enalcas said to me.6 !ndeed ! hope that ! have nown all passions and all vices# at any rate ! have favored them. (ll my being is passionately drawn to all creeds# and on certain evenings ! was mad enough almost to believe in my soul, ! felt it so near escaping from my body. 0enalcas said this too. (nd our life will have been set before us li e that glass of iced water, that moist glass which a sic man holds in his feverish hands, which he longs to drin , and which he drin s at one draught, nowing that he. ought to wait, but incapable of putting aside that delicious glass from his lips, so cool is the water, so hotly his fever pants for it. (h, how deeply ! have inhaled the cold night air, ah, casements: (nd you, pale beams streaming from the moon through the mists of night, so li e water from a spring-one seemed to drin you. (h, casements: How often ! have cooled my brow against your panes, and how often, when ! sprang from the unbearable beat of my bed and ran to the balcony, my desires vanished li e a wraith at sight of the vast and tran4uil s ies: ;evers of bygone days, you consumed my flesh with a mortal consumption# but how great is the soul's e%haustion when nothing distracts it from God: "he fi%ity of my adoration was fearful# ! was absorbed in it to self -e%tinction. /$+. would search long,/ said 0enalcas to me, /for the impossible happiness of the soul./ (fter the first days of dubious ecstasy bad gone by- but before ! met 0enalcas-!, went through an an%ious period of suspense# -it was li e crossing a bog. ! san overwhelmed into heavy slumbers of which no amount of sleep sufficed to cure me. ! !ay down 'after meals# ! slept, ! wo e up more tired than before, with a mind benumbed, as though in the first stages of a metamorphosis. +bscure operations of life# latent travail, un nown births, laborious deliveries# drowsiness, passivity# ! slept li e a chrysalis and a pupa# ! let the new, already different creature ! was going to be -form within me. (ll light reached me as though filtered through depth upon depth of green waters, through leaves and branches# my perceptions were confused, deadened, li e those of a stunned or drun en man. /(li:/ ! prayed, /let the crisis

come to a head now, at once, let the disease declare itself, the pain stab me:/ (nd my brain felt li e those stormy s ies, charged with lowering clouds, on days when to breathe is almost impossible, and all nature longs for the 1ash of lightning that will rip open the mur y, humor-laden bladders that blot out heaven's a,ure. How long, < waiting, will you last) (nd once over, what will there be left for us to live for) /Waiting: Waiting for what)/ ! cried. /What can come that is not born of ourselves) (nd what can be born of us that we do not now already)/ (bel's birth, my betrothal, Eric's death-all this upheaval of my life, far from putting an end to my apathy, seemed to plunge me still deeper into it, so that my torpor seemed to come from the very comple%ity of my, thought and the indecision of my will. ! should have li ed to sleep to all eternity in the moisture of the earth, li e a vegetable. &ometimes ! said to myself that sensual pleasure would put an end to my trouble, and ! tried to liberate my mind by e%hausting my flesh. "hen ! went to sleep again for hour after hour, li e small children who feel drowsy with the heat and are put to bed at noon in the stir of a bustling household. "hen, called bac from heaven nows where, ! wo e up in a sweat, with a beating heart and a numbed brain. "he light that tric led in from below through the crac s of the closed shutters and cast green reflections of the lawn on the white ceiling-that evening light was my one solace# it was soft and charming as the glimmer that filters through leaves and water and trembles on the threshold of dim grottoes, to eyes long accustomed to their glooms. "he household noises reached me vaguely. &lowly ! came bac to life. ! washed in warm water and went languidly down to the plain, as far as the garden bench, where in idleness ! waited for the evening to draw in. ! was perpetually too tired to spea , to listen, to write. ! read* /. . . He sees before him "he deserted roads, the sea-gulls (s they spread their wrings and bathe. !t inhere that ! must live. ! am forced to dwell .nder the leaves of the forest, .nder the oa trees, !n this underground cave. 8old is this earthy house# ! am weary of it. Gloomy the valleys, High the hills, &ad dwelling, set round with branches, 1oofed with brambles8heerless abode./ ! ! /"he E%ile's &ong./ "ranslated from the (nglo-&a%on by "aine and 4uoted in 2itterature anglaise, =ol. >, p. ?<. "he feeling that a plenitude of life was possible, though not yet achieved, sometimes came in glimpses, then oftener, then more and more insistently, hauntingly. /(bl/ ! cried, /let a breach be thrown open, let the daylight come flooding in, let it shine at last among these perpetual peevish glooms:/ 0y whole being felt, as it were, an immense need to refresh its vigor in a bath of newness. ! awaited a second puberty. (h, if only my eyes could see with newvision, if only ! could cleanse them from the soil of boo s, ma e them more li e the s ies they loo ats ies that today have been washed bright and clean by the recent rains. . . .! fell ill# ! traveled, ! met 0enalcas, and my marvelous convalescence was a palingenesis. ! was born again with a new self, in a new country and among things absolutely fresh. Nathaniel, ! will spea to you of waiting. ! have seen the plains in summer waiting, longing for a little rain. "he dust on the roads had become so light that a breath raised it. !t was not even longin-it was apprehension. "he earth had crac ed into great fissures from the drought, as though better to welcome the coming water. "he scent of the wild moorland flowers was almost intolerable, and the world lay gasping in the heat of the sun. Every afternoon we went to rest below the terrace, where we were a little sheltered from the e%treme fierceness of the light. !t was that time of year when the conebearing trees are laden with pollen and gently wave their branches in order to scatter their fertili,ing dust abroad. &torm clouds bad piled themselves in the lowering s y and all nature was e%pectant. "he moment was too oppressively solemn, for all the birds had

fallen silent. &o hot a breath rose from the earth that all life seemed to-be swooning# the pollen from the trees floated from the branches li e a golden smo e. "hen, it rained. ! have seen the s y shiver as it waited for the dawn. +ne by one the stars faded. "he meadows were flooded with dew# no caress of the air's but was icy. !t seemed to me that the indistinguishable throb of life all around me was lingering, reluctant to awa e, and my head too was heavy with torpor. ! climbed to the outs irts of the wood# ! sat down# the creatures, confident in the return of day, resumed their labors and their 3oys, and the mystery of life began once more to rustle in the fretwor of the leaves. "hen the day dawned. ! have seen still other dawns. ! have seen the night (waited, longed for. Nathaniel, let your waiting be not even a longing, but simply a welcoming. Welcome everything that comes to you, but do not long for anything else. 2ong only for what you have. .nderstand that at every moment of the day God in His entirety may be yours. 2et your longing be for love, and your possession a lover's. ;or what is a longing that is not effectual) What, Nathaniel, you possess God without being aware of it: "o possess God is to see Him, but you do not loo . -alaam, did you not see God, who stood in your way and from whom your ass turned aside) -ecause you had imagined Him otherwise. Nathaniel, God only must not be awaited. Who awaits God, Nathaniel, fails to understand he possesses Him. -elieve that God and happiness are one, and put all your happiness in the present moment. (s women in the pale East wear their entire fortune on their persons, so ! have always carried with me all my possessions. (t every smallest moment of my life ! have felt within me the whole of my wealth. !t consisted, not in the addition of a great many particular items, but in my single adoration of them. ! have constantly carried my whole wealth in my whole power. 2oo upon the evening as the death of the day# and upon the morning as the birth of all things. 2et every moment renew your vision. "he wise man is be who constantly wonders afresh. (ll the weariness of your mind, < Nathaniel, comes from the diversity of your possessions. $ou do not even now which of them all you prefer and you do not understand that the only possession of any value is life. "he smallest moment of life is stronger than death and cancels it. Death is no more than permission granted to other modes of life to e%ist, so that everything may be ceaselessly renewed-so that no mode of life may last longer than the time needed for it to e%press itself. Happy the moment in which your words resound. (ll the rest of the time, listen# but when you spea , listen no longer. $ou must ma e a bonfire in your heart, Nathaniel, of all your boo s.

A LAY 7ORSHI88ING 7HAT I HA9E BURNED So)e !oo-s o e re%"s sitti + o % %rro0 !e #& I ,ro t o, % s#&ool "es-. So)e !oo-s o e re%"s out 0%l-i + :A little too !e#%use o, t&eir si6e;1 So)e %re ,or t&e 0oo"s$ So)e ,or ot&er #ou tr' *l%#es No!is#u) rusti#% tur$ s%'s Ci#ero. T&ere %re so)e I &%ve re%" i st%+e#o%#&es1 So)e ot&ers l'i + i % &%'lo,t. T&ere %re so)e t&%t )%-e us !elieve i t&e e/iste #e o, t&e soul1 Ot&ers t&%t )%-e us "es*%ir o, it. So)e t&%t *rove t&ere is % Go"1 Ot&ers t&%t ,%il to. So)e t&%t #% o l' !e %")itte" i to *riv%te li!r%ries1 So)e t&%t &%ve !ee *r%ise" !' )% ' e)i e t #riti#s. T&ere %re so)e t&%t tre%t o, ot&i + !ut %*i#ulture A " )i+&t !e t&ou+&t % little te#& i#%l1 Ot&ers i 0&i#& t&ere is so )u#& t%l- o, %ture T&%t %,ter re%"i + t&e) t&ere is o ee" to +o out ,or % 0%l-. T&ere %re so)e t&%t %re "es*ise" !' 0ise )e $ But t&%t t&rill little #&il"re . So)e %re #%lle" % t&olo+ies A " #o t%i %ll t&e !est s%'i +s O ever't&i + u "er t&e su . T&ere %re so)e t&%t tr' to )%-e o e love li,e1 Ot&ers %,ter 0riti + 0&i#& T&e %ut&or &%s #o))itte" sui#i"e. T&ere %re so)e t&%t so0 &%tre" A " re%* 0&%t t&e' &%ve so0 . So)e$ %s o e re%"s t&e)$ see) to s&i e$ C&%r+e" 0it& e#st%s'$ "eli#ious 0it& &u)ilit'. T&ere %re so)e o e loves li-e !rot&ers 7&o &%ve live" )ore *urel' % " !etter t&% 0e. T&ere %re

so)e 0ritte i su#& str% +e l% +u%+es T&%t eve %,ter % "ee* stu"' o, t&e) T&e' %re i)*ossi!le to u "erst% ". Nathaniel, when shall we ma e a bonfire of all our boo s) So)e t&ere %re ot 0ort& % *e '1 Ot&ers e/tre)el' v%lu%!le. So)e s*e%- o, -i +s % " <uee s$ A " ot&ers o, t&e$ ver' *oor. T&ere %re so)e 0&ose 0or"s %re s0eeter T&% t&e rustle o, le%ves %t oo . It 0%s % !oot&%t =o& %te o 8%t)os$ Li-e % r%t :%s ,or )e$ I *re,er r%s*!erries;1 It )%"e &is !ell' !itter A " %,ter0%r"s &e &%" visio s. ( bonfire, Nathaniel, of all our boo s:: !t is not enough for me -t.o read that the sand on the seashore is soft# my bare feet must feel it. ! have no use for nowledge that has not been preceded by a sensation. ! have never seen anything sweetly beautiful in this world without desiring to touch it with all my fondness. < loving beauty of the earth, the flowering of your surface is marvelous. &cenes into which my desire plunges, lands lying open before me that my longing e%plores: 9apyrus alley, growing over water# reeds bending down to the river# glades opening out in the forest# visions of the plain through an embrasure of branches, visions of unbounded promise: ! have wal ed in narrow passages through roc s or plants. ! have seen springtimes unfold. A +%r"e o % Flore ti e &ill :,%#i + Fiesole;3our )eeti +3*l%#e t&%t eve i + -ut you do not, cannot now, (ngaire, $dier, "ityrus,/ said 0enalcas 5and ! repeat you his words now, Nathaniel, in my own name6, /the passion that devoured my youth. "he flight of time maddened me. "he necessity of choice was always intolerable# choosing seemed to me not so much selecting as re3ecting what ! didn't select. ! reali,ed with horror how restricted were the passing hours and that time has only one dimensions line, whereas ! wanted it deep and wide# as my desires hurried impatiently along it, they inevitably impinged on one another. ! never did anything but this or that. !f ! did this, ! immediately regretted that, and ! often remained motionless, not daring to do anything, but my arms wide open in distraction, fearing to close them lest it should be to clasp only one thing. "he mista e of my life in those days was to be incapable of pursuing any study for long because ! could not ma e up my mind to give up a host of others. (nything was too dear at such a price, and no reasoning could relieve my distress. "o enter a mar et of delights with too small a sum 5than s to Whom)6 at my disposal. "o spend it, to choose, was to give up forever any chance of the remainder, and the innumerable 4uantity of that remainder always seemed preferable to any single item whatever. /"his was the cause of some of the aversion ! feel for any possession on earth-the fear of immediately possessing nothing but that. /0erchandise: &tores of wealth: Heaps of treasure trovel Why can you not be given us unsparingly) ! now, indeed, that the produce of the earth is not ine%haustible 5though ine%haustibly renewable6 and that the cup ! have emptied remains empty for you, my brother 5though its source springs near at hand6. -ut you, immaterial ideas: unappropriated forms of life, sciences of nature, and nowledge of God, cups of truth, cups that can never run dry, why do you grudge us your abundance, when all our thirst could never drain you, and you would overflow eternally with fresh water for the outstretched lips of every fresh comer)! have learned now that all the drops of that divine fountainhead are e4uivalent# that the smallest suffices to transport us and reveals the plenitude and totality of God. -ut at that time what did ! not desire in my madness) ! envied every form of -life# everything ! saw another do, ! wanted to' do myself-not to have done it, mind you, but to do it-for ! had very little fear of faticrue or suffering, and believed them to be pregnant with instruction. ! was 3ealous of 9armenides for three wee s on end because he was learning "ur ish# two < months later of "heodosius, who had discovered astronomy. &o that the figure ! drew of myself was the vaguest and most uncertain, because ! could not consent to limit it./ /"ell us the story of your life, 0enalcas,/ said (lcides. (nd 0enalcas went on* /(t eighteen years of age, when ! bad finished my first schooling, with a mind weary of wor , an unoccupied heart sic of its own emptiness, a body e%asperated by constraint, ! too to the road, with no end in view but simply to cool my vagabond fever. ! e%perienced all the things you now so well-the springtime, the smell of the earth, the flowering of the fields, the mists of morning on the rivers, the ha,e of evening on the meadows. ! passed through towns, but stopped nowhere. Happy, thought !, the man who is attached to nothing on earth and who carries his fervor unremittingly with him through all the ceaseless mobility of life. ! hated homes and families and all the places where a man thin s to find rest# and lasting affections, and the fidelities of love,

and attachment to ideas-all that endangers 3ustice# ! held that every new thing should always find the whole of us wholly available. /-oo s bad taught me that every liberty is provisional and never anything but the power to choose one's slavery, or at any rate one's devotion-as the thistle seed flies bither and thither, see ing a fertile soil in which to fi% its roots-and can only flower when motionless. -ut as ! bad learned at school that men are not guided by reasoning and that every argument may be opposed by a contrary one which needs only to be found, ! set about loo ing for it, sometimes, in the course of my long 3ourneyings. ! lived in the perpetual, delicious e%pectation of the future, no matter what it might be. ! taught myself that, li e e%pectant 4uestions in face of their answers, the thirst that arises in face of every pleasure must be swift to precede its en3oyment. 0y happiness came from this-that a thirst was revealed me by every spring and that in the waterless desert, where thirst cannot be 4uenched, ! preferred to it the fierceness of my fever and the e%citement of the sun. in the evenings ! came upon wonderful oases, all the cooler for having been so longed for during the day. +n the sandy plain that lay stretched in the sun, as though struc down by a vast and overpowering sleep, ! have still felt, so great was the heat and even in the very vibration of the air! have still felt a pulsing life that could not sleep-! have felt it tremble and faint in the curve of the hori,on, and at my feet grow big with love. /Every day, and from hour to hour, ! wanted nothing but to be more and more simply absorbed into nature. ! possessed the precious gift of not. being too greatly encumbered by myself. 1emembrance of the past had only 3ust enough power over me to give the necessary unity to my life# it was li e the mysterious thread that bound "heseus to his past love but did not prevent him from pushing on to newer. prospects. Even so, that thread had to be bro en. . (h, wonderful palingenesis: +ften in my early morning rambles ! have had the delicious sensation of having a new self, a fresh delicacy of perception. '"he poet's gift,' ! cried, 'is the gift of perpetual discovery,' and ! welcomed whatever came. 0y soul was the inn standing open at the crossroads# entered whatever would. ! made myself ductile, conciliatory, at the disposal of each one of my senses, attentive, a listener@ without a single thought of himself, a captor of every passing emotion, and so little capable of reaction that, rather than protest against anything, ! preferred to thin ill of nothing. !ndeed, ! soon noticed how little my love of beauty was based upon hatred of ugliness. /!t was lassitude ! hated, for ! new it was made of tedium, and ! held that one should confidently rec on on the world's ine%haustible diversity. ! too my rest no matter where. ! have slept in the fields. ! have slept in the woods. ! have seen the dawn 4uivering between tall sheaves of grain, and the roo s awa ing above beech groves. "here were mornings when ! washed in the grass and the rising sun dried my damp clothes. Was the country ever more beautiful than on the day ! saw a rich harvest carried home to the sound of singing, and o%en drawing the big lumbering wagons) /"here came a time when my 3oy was so great that ! longed to communicate it, to teach someone else how ! ept it alive. /&ometimes in little obscure villages ! used to watch the homes that bad been dispersed during the day coming together again in the evening# the father returning tired out from his wor , the children from their school. ;or a moment the house door would open on a glimpse of welcoming light and warmth and laughter, and then shut again for the night. No vagabond thing could enter now, no blast of the shivering wind outside. -;amilies, ! bate you: closed circles round the hearth# doors fast shut# 3ealous possession of happiness.&ometimes, invisible in the night, ! stood leaning at the window-pane for a long space watching the habits of a household. "he father was there near the lamp# the mother sat sewing# the grandfather's chair stood empty# a boy was doing his lessons beside his father-and my heart swelled with the desire to ta e him away with me to live a wandering life on the roads. /"he ne%t day ! saw him coming out of school# the day after,.! spo e to -him# four days later he left everything to follow me. ! opened his eyes to the, glory of the plains# he understood that it wasfor him their glory lay open. (nd so ! taught his soul to become more vagabond, to become 3oyful-to free itself at last even from me, to grow ac4uainted with its solitude. /(lone, ! en3oyed the violent pleasure of pride. ! li ed to rise before dawn# ! called up the sun to shine on the stubble fields# the lar sang my fancies# the dew was my morning lotion. ! too pleasure in e%cessive frugality and ate so little that my head grew light and the slightest sensation procured me a ind of drun enness. ! have drun many wines since then, but ! have nown none of them give that into%ication that comes from fastingthat swimming of the plains in the early morning when, once the sun had risen, ! fell asleep in the hollow of a haystac . ! sometimes ept the bread ! bad ta en with me till ! was half fainting# then nature seemed to me less alien, more intimately penetrating-an influ% from without, a presence welcomed by all my eager senses, a feast to which all within me was invited. /0y soul was in a state of lyrical ecstasy, which my solitude enhanced and which grew fatiguing toward

evening. ! was ept up by pride, but at such times ! regretted Hilary, who the year before had shared and moderated the over-wildness of my moods. /"oward evening ! used to tal to him# he was a poet himself# he had an ear for harmonies. !n every natural effect we could read its cause as in an open boo # we learned to recogni,e the insect by its flight, the bird by its song, and the beauty of women by their footprints in the sand. He too was devoured by a thirst for -adventure# his strength had made him bold. (h, no later glory will ever e4ual that adolescence of bur hearts: 1apturously inhaling every breath that blows, we tried in vain to e%haust our desires# every thought was a fervor# every feeling of singular acuity. We wore out our splendid youth in the e%pectation of a fairer future, and the road that led to it never seemed interminable enough, where we strode along, crushing on our lips those hedgerow flowers that leave in the mouth a taste of honey and an e%4uisite bitterness. /&ometimes, as ! passed through 9aris, ! would visit for a few days or a few, hours the apartment where ! bad spent my studious childhood# it was all silence# some absent woman's care had spread sheets over the furniture. 2amp in hand, ! would go from one room to another without opening the shutters, which had been closed years before, or without pulling the curtains that were heavy with the smell of camphor. "he air was close and musty. 0y bedroom alone was ept ready for me. !n the library-the dar est and 4uietest of all the rooms-the boo s on the shelves and tables were arranged as ! had left them# sometimes ! would open one and, sitting beside a lighted lamp, though it was day time, happily forget the passing hour# sometimes too ! opened the grand piano and searched my memory for some tune of bygone days# but it would come bac to me in such imperfect snatches that rather than let it ma e me melancholy, >. bro e off my playing. "he ne%t day ! had again left 9aris far behind me. /0y heart, which was naturally loving-li4uid, as it were-overflowed in all directions# no 3oy seemed to me e%clusively my own. ! invited any casual passer-by to share it, and when ! was alone to en3oy my pleasure, ! could only-do so with the help of my pride. /&ome people ta%ed me with selfishness# ! ta%ed them with stupidity. 0y claim was not to love anyone in particular-man or woman-but friendship itself, or affection, or love. ! refused to deprive another of what ! gave to one, and would only lend myself-3ust as ! had no wish to appropriate another's body or heart. ( nomad here too, as in nature, ! too up my abode nowhere. ( preference seemed to me an in3ustice# wishing to belong to all men, ! would not give myself to any one. /"he memory of every town was lin ed in my mind to the memory of a debauch. !n =enice ! too part in the mas4uerades. ( concert of violas and flutes accompanied the boat in which ! was love-ma ing# it was followed by boatloads of other young men and women. We went to the 2ido to watch the daybrea , but before the sun rose, the music had stopped and we bad fallen asleep out of weariness. -ut ! en3oyed the very fatigue these false pleasures left behind and that sic awa ing which ma es us reali,e they have turned to dust. . /!n other ports, ! forgathered with the sailors of the big ships# ! went down with them to the ill-lit alleys of the town# but ! blamed myself for this han ering after e%perience, our only temptation# so leaving the sailors to their dens, ! went bac to the tran4uil harbor, w here the 4uiet-counseling night gave me its own interpretation of the memories of those alleys whose strange and poignant rumors reached me through a veil of ecstasy. ! preferred the riches ! found in the country. /(t thirty-five years old, however 5not wearied of travel but feeling uneasy at the e%cessive pride this roving life had encouraged6, ! reali,ed, or persuaded myself, that ! was at last ripe for some other form of e%istence. /'Why, why.' ! as ed them, 'do you spea to me of setting out again on my travels) ! now that fresh flowers are blooming by all the roadsides# but it is you they are now waiting for. -ees do not go gathering honey forever# after a time they stay at home to guard their treasure. ! went bac to the apartment ! had abandoned. ! uncovered the furniture# ! opened the windows# and with the money ! had unintentionally saved during my vagabond e%istence ! was able to purchase all inds of precious and fragile ob3ects-vases, rare boo s, and especially pictures, which my nowledge of painting -enabled me to buy for practically nothing. ;or fifteen years ! accumulated wealth li e a miser# ! gathered riches with all my capacities# ! gathered nowledge# ! learned the dead languages and could read in many boo s# ! learned to play many inds of instruments# every hour of every day was devoted to some profitable study# history and biology interested me particularly. ! became ac4uainted with the literatures of the world. ! formed friendships that, than s to the 4ualities of my heart and the un4uestioned nobility of my birth, ! was able to enter upon in all loyalty.. "hey were more precious to me than all the rest, and yet not even they could bold me. /When ! was fifty, the hour having struc , ! sold all my belongings, and as, with my taste and connoisseurship, ! had ac4uired nothing that had not increased in value, in a couple of days ! reali,ed a large fortune, which ! invested in such a way as to have it always at my immediate disposal. ! sold absolutely

everything, being determined to have no personal possession on this earth-not the smallest relic of the past. /"o 0yrtil, the companion of my wanderings, ! used to say* '"his lovely morning, this ha,e and this light, this bree,y freshness, this pulsation of your being, would give you a far greater feeling of delight if you could abandon yourself to it entirely. $ou imagine you are here, but the best part of you is confined elsewhere# your wife and children, your boo s and studies bold it prisoner and God is robbed of it. /'Do you thin that at this precise moment you can feel to the uttermost the sensation of life in all its power, completeness, and immediacy, unless you forget all that is not life) "he habits of your mind hamper you# you live in the past and the future, and you perceive nothing spontaneously. We only e%ist, 0yrtil, in the here and now# in this momentariness the whole past. perishes before any of the future is born. 0oments: $ou must reali,e, 0yrtil, the power of their presence. ;or each moment of our lives is essentially irreplaceable# you should learn to sin yourself in it utterly. !f you chose, 0yrtil, at this very moment, without either wife or child, you might be alone on earth in the presence of God. -ut you cannot forget them, and you carry with you all your past, all your loves, all the preoccupations of this earth, as if you were afraid of losing them. (s for me, my whole love is available at every moment and ready for a fresh surprise# it is forever familiar and forever strange. $ou cannot imagine, 0yrtil, all the forms in which God shows Himself# loo ing too !ona, and too passionately at one blinds you to the others. "he fi%ity of your adoration grieves me# ! should li e to see it more widely diffused. God stands behind all your closed doors. (ll forms of God are lovable, and everything is the form of God.' /. . . When ! had reali,ed my fortune, ! began by freighting a ship, and went to sea with three friends, a crew of sailors, and four cabin boys. ! fell in love with the least beautiful of the four, but even better than his caresses, sweet as they were, ! preferred ga,ing at the ocean. ! anchored at sunset in magic harbors, and left again before dawn, after ! bad spent the whole night, sometimes, searching for love. !n =enice ! found a very beautiful courtesan# three nights !ona, ! loved her, for so beautiful was she that she made me forget the delights of my other loves. !t was to her ! sold or gave my boat. /! lived for some months in a palace on the shores of 2a e 8omo. "here ! gathered round me a number of the sweetest musicians, and a few beautiful women too, who could tal discreetly and well# in the evenings we would converse, while the musicians were charming us# then we would go down to the shore by a flight of marble steps, the last of which dipped in the waters of the la e# wandering boats bore us away and we lulled our loves asleep to the 4uiet rhythm of the oars. Drowsily we returned home# the boat started awa e at the shoc of landing, and !doine, banging on my arm, silently mounted the stairs. /"he year after that, ! spent some time in =endee in an immense par not far from the coast. "hree poets sang the welcome ! offered them in my house# they sang too the garden pools with their fishes and plants, the poplar avenues, the solitary oa s, the clumps of beeches, and the noble planning of the par . When the autumn came, ! had the finest trees cut down and too pleasure in laying waste my domain. No words can describe the appearance of the par as ! strolled with my guests down the paths ! had allowed to become grass-grown. "he blows of the woodcutters' a%es resounded from one end of the avenues to the other. "he women's dresses were caught by the branches that lay across the roads. ( splendid autumn bla,ed on the fallen trees. &o glorious was the magnificence it laid upon them that for a long time ! could thin of nothing else -and ! recogni,ed this as a sign ! was growing old. /&ince then my dwellings have been a chalet in the high (lps# a white palace in 0alta, near the scented woods of 8itta =ecchia, where the lemons have the sharp sweetness of oranges# a traveling chaise in Dalmatia# and at the present moment this garden on this ;lorentine hill, facing ;iesole, where ! have gathered you together this evening. /(nd you must not say ! owe my happiness to circumstances# no doubt they were propitious, but ! did not ma e use of them. Do not thin that my happiness has been made with the help of riches# my heart, freed from all earthly ties, has always been poor, and ! shall die easily. 0y happiness is made of fervor. "hrough the medium of all things without distinction, ! have passionately worshipped./ "he monumental terrace where we were sitting 5led up to by winding steps6 was lofty enough to overloo the whole town and resembled a huge ship riding at anchor over the foliage of the deep woods beneath it# at times it seemed to be really ma ing toward the town. "hat summer ! sometimes went up to this imaginary ship's bridge to en3oy the appeasing and contemplative 4uiet of evening after the turmoil of the streets. (ll the noises from below died away as they rose# it was as though they were waves and were brea ing here. "hey came on and on ma3estically, rose and spread, widening as they struc against the walls. -ut ! climbed higher still to where the waves could not reach. +n the farthest terrace nothing could be heard but the rustle of leaves and the wild call of the night. Evergreen oa s and enormous laurels, planted in regular avenues, came to an end at the edge of the s y,

where the terrace itself ended, though here and there were rounded balustrades that 3utted out still farther and made as it were balconies in the blue. "here ! used to sit, entranced in thought# there ! imagined ! was sailing in my ship. +ver the dar bills that rose on the other side of the town, the s y was the color of gold# feathery branches, starting from the terrace where ! sat, drooped toward the gorgeous west, or sprang out, and rest at ease after the heat and fatigues of the day. ! went from group to group, but heard only dis3ointed fragments, though they spo e of nothing but love. /(ll pleasures are good,/ said Eliphas, /and should be tasted./ /-ut not all by all,/ said "ibullus# /there must be a choice./ ;arther on, "erence was tal ing to 9haedra and -achir. /! loved,/ said he, /a Aabyle girl, hardly ripe# her s in was blac and her flesh perfection. !n the wantonest moments of pleasure, and even on its after-flagging, she ept a disconcerting gravity. &he was the nuisance of my days and the delight of my nights./ "hen &imiane to Hylas* /it is a tiny fruit that should be eaten of often./ Hylas sang* /"here are little pleasures we have tasted that are li e the sour berries one pilfers by the roadside, and one wishes they were sweeter./ We sat down on the grass beside the spring. ;or a moment the song of a night-bird near by held my attention more than their tal # when ! began to listen again, Hylas was saying* (nd each one of my senses has had its own desires. When ! wanted Bo return home, ! found my manservants and maidservants seated at my tabl ' e# there was not the smallest place left for me. "he seat of honor was occupied by "hirst# and other thirsts wanted to ta e the place from him. "he whole table was 4uarrelsome, but they combined together against me. When ! tried to come near the table, they were already drun and rose against me with one accord# they turned me out of my house# they dragged me out of doors, and again ! went to gather them more grapes. ../Desires: -eautiful desires, ! will bring you the 3uice of the grape# ! will fill up your huge cups# but let me in again to my own house-so that when you fall into your drun en sleep ! may once more crown myself with purple and ivy-hide the care of my brows under a garland of ivy./ Drun enness fell upon me too and ! found it difficult to go on listening# at times, when the bird stopped singinor, the night seemed as silent as if ! had been the only one to contemplate it# at times there seemed to spring up all round me other voices that mingled with those of my companions* We too, we too, they said, have nown the lamentable sic ness of our souls. +ur desires will not let us wor in peace. ... "his summer all my desires were thirsty. !t was as though they had crossed deserts. (nd ! refused them drin , &o well ! new it was drin ing that had made them sic . 5"here were clusters of grapes in which forgetfulness lay drowsing# there were some where bees were 'busy feeding# there were some where the sunshine seemed to be still lingering.6 +ne desire comes to sit at my bedside every evening# Every morning ! find it still there. !t has watched over me all night. ! tried to weary my desire with wal ing, ! could only fatigue my body. Now, 8leodalisa, sing*

"HE 1+.NDE2($ +; (22 0$ desires What did ! dream of last night) When ! awo e, all my desires were thirsty, (s if they had crossed deserts while they slept. "o and fro, uneasily we may -etween desire and listlessness. Desires: Will you never weary) +h: +h: +h: +h: "hat little passing pleasure-that ,pleasure that will soon have passed: (las: (las: ! now how to prolong my pain# but how can ! entice my pleasure to stay) "o and fro, uneasily we sway between desire and listlessness. (nd all man ind, ! thought, is li e a sic man, tossing from side to side on his bed-7 trying to rest and unable even to sleep. +ur desires have already crossed many worlds# "hey have never yet been glutted. (nd all nature tosses -etween desire for rest and thirst for pleasure. We have cried aloud for anguish !n deserted rooms. We have climbed to the tops of towers Whence only dar ness was visible. (s dogs we have howled with pain +n the parching sand-hills# (s lions we have roared in the (tlas, and as camels we have browsed on the gray weeds of the shotts and suc ed the sap from hollow reeds-for there is very little water in the desert. (s swallows we have flown across vast and barren seas# (s locusts we have laid waste whole countries in search of food. (s seaweed the storms have roc ed us# (s snowfla es we have scudded before the wind. +h, for an immensity of rest: ! call upon salutary death, so that at length my e%hausted desire may be freed from laboring after further metempsychoses. Desire: ! have dragged you with me along the highroads# ! have denied you in the fields# ! have sated you with drin in the big towns-sated you without 4uenching your thirst# ! have bathed you in moonlight nights# ! have ta en you with me wherever ! went# ! have cradled you on the waves# ! have lulled you to sleep on the high seas.... Desire: Desire: What more can ! do for you) What more do you want) Will you never weary) "he moon showed between the branches of the ile% trees, monotonous, but lovely as ever. "hey were tal ing now in groups and ! heard only a sentence here and there# everyone seemed to be spea ing to everyone else of love, without heeding that no one listened. "hen, as the moon disappeared behind the dar ened branches of the ile% trees, the conversation died away, and they lay 4uiet beside one another among the leaves, vaguely listening to the one or two voices that still lingered on, but more and a - ore softly, till soon they only reached us mingled With the murmur of the stream in its mossy bed. &irniane, then rising, made herself a wreath of ivy, and ! smelled the scent of the bruised leaves. Helen untwisted her hair so that it fell over her shoulders, and 1achel went to gather wet moss to press upon her eyelids and cool them to sleep. "hen even the light of the moon disappeared. ! lay on the ground, drowsed with enchantment and the fumes of melancholy. ENVOI (nd now, Nathaniel, throw away my boo . &ha e yourself free of it. 2eave me. 2eave me# now you are in my way# you hamper me# ! have e%aggerated my love for you and it occupies me too much. ! am tired of pretending ! can educate anyone. When have ! said that ! wanted you to be li e me) !t. is because you differ from me that ! love you# the -+nly thing ! love in you is what differs from me. Educate: Whom should ! educate but myself) Nathaniel, shall > tell you) ! have educated myself interminably. (nd ! have not done yet. ! only esteem myself for my possibilities. Nathaniel, throw away my boo # do not let it satisfy you. Do not thin your truth can be found by anyone else# be ashamed of nothing more than of that. !f ! found your food for you, you would have no appetite for it# if ! made your bed, you would not be able to sleep in it. "hrow away my boo # say to yourself that it is only one of the thousand possible postures in life. 2oo for your own. Do not do what someone else could do as well as you. Do not say, do not write, what someone

else could say, could write, as well as you. 8are for nothing in yourself but what you feel e%ists nowhere else, and out of yourself create, impatiently or patiently, ah, Nathaniel, the most irreplaceable of beings.y. ! did not spea of love. ! waited for morning so as to be off and ta e again to the fortune of the road. 0y head had long been swimming with fatigue. ! slept a few hours-then, at daybrea , ! went on my way.