let it pass.

I shall have no more confused desires, no more sudden impulses of
kindliness, no more agonized expectancy, and no more of those
questionings which make a stifling desert about me. I shall be
satisfied. If my hell returns at times to visit me, that red-eyed
narrow-chested hell, my husband will be there, seated opposite me at
table; he will raise his head. "What's the matter, aren't you hungry?"

The soul, the essence, the deep voice from within--words, mere words....
There is nothing but the noise below. And only that. And I must return
to it. Well, come on, go down, speak, smile. All existences are alike.
When there is no longer a single lie left to tell, it means the time has
come to die.

Why obstinately wish to discover a way out and knock your head against a
stone wall? There is no way out. You must not cherish the impossible;
get up and go gaily downstairs. A little cold water, a little powder;
this is a grief you are not permitted to indulge in.

Once again and for all time I shall go to them. If they are boisterous,
spineless, unobservant, with no warmth in them, perhaps after all at
some time at the bottom of their hearts they have felt, if only vaguely
and vanishingly, the jealous fever which weighs like a heart; perhaps
they have suffered; perhaps in looking back, when the sunshine has burst
forth, they have understood that the period of their twenties was
sacred. The twenties! And we, the youth, say to ourselves: wisdom is
within us, the future is within us, and reason, salt, blood, the truth.
It is ourselves, only ourselves. And we wish to open our hearts and say
to those who pass: "Come to us, ask us. It is from us that everything
can be learned; we can explain the secret things, the inner meanings,
the words hidden in the folds of the body, the startling confessions
that are breathed on the highways, everything that is changeful, for
nothing is permanent but change; we know everything, and more than
everything; we who have never loved, we know the whole of love." Perhaps
_they_, the dancers downstairs, have stretched out their arms, tasted
the fresh morning with their lips, felt the beating of a heart of sobs;
perhaps they have once _been_ their hope. I shall do what they have
done; it is my turn; my time for withering will surely come too.

The farandole! Ah, they are holding each other's hands, the old folks
are also joining in. "Let's enjoy ourselves!" Their faces are tense, and
abo