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To say?
This evening, the poplars, of which I see only the tops, are being cruelly dashed together by an angry wind.
My cell, lulled by that kindly death, is so sweet today!
What if I were free to morrow?
(Tomorrow is the day of the hearing.)
Free, in other words, exiled among the living. I have built me a soul to fit my dwelling. My cell is so sweet.
Free: to drink wine, to smoke, to see ordinary people. And tomorrow, what will the jury be like? I have
anticipated the stiffest possible sentence it can inflict. I have prepared myself for it with great care, for I have
chosen my horoscope (according to what I can read of it from past events) as a figure of fatality. Now that I
can obey it, my grief is less great. It is annihilated in the face of the irremediable. It is my hopelessness, and
what will be, will be. I have given up my desires. I too am “already way beyond that** (Weidmann). Let me
therefore live between these walls for a man's lifetime. Who will be judged tomorrow? Some stranger bearing
a name that was once my name. I can continue to die, until my death, amidst all these widowers. Lamp,
wash.basin, regulations, broom. And the straw mattress, my spouse.
I do not feel like going to sleep. Tomorrow's hearing is a solemnity that requires a vigil. It is this evening that
I should like to weep—as one who stays behind—for my farewells. But my lucidity is like a nakedness. The
wind outside is getting wilder and wilder and is being joined by the rain. The elements are thus a prelude to
tomorrow's ceremonies. Today is the 12th, isn't it? What shall I decide? Warnings are said to come from God.
They don't interest me. I already feel that I no longer belong to the prison. Broken is the exhausting fraternity
that bound me to the men of the tomb. Perhaps I shall live...
At times I am shaken with a burst of brutal and unaccountable laughter. It resounds within me like a joyous
cry in the fog, which it seems to be trying to dissipate, but it leaves no trace other than a wistful longing for
sun and gaiety.
Our Lady of the Flowers
Our Lady of the Flowers
What if I am condemned? I shall don homespun again, and this rust.colored garment will immediately entail
the monastic gesture: hiding my hands in my sleeves; and the equivalent attitude of mind will follow: I shall
feel myself becoming humble and glorious; then, snug under my blankets—it is in Don Juan that the dramatis
personae come back to life on the stage and kiss each other—I shall, for the enchantment of my cell, refashion
lovely new lives for Darling, Divine, Our Lady and Gabriel.
I have read moving letters, full of wonderful touches, of despair, of hopes, of songs; and others more severe. I
am choosing from among them one which will be the letter Darling wrote to Divine from prison:
“Dearest,
I'm writing a few lines to give you the news, which isn't good. I've been arrested for stealing. So try to get a
lawyer to handle my case. Arrange to pay him. And also arrange to send me a money.order, because you
know how lousy things are here. Also try to get permission to come and see me and bring me some linens. Put
in the blue and white silk pajamas. And some undershirts. Dearest, I'm awfully sorry about what's happened to
me. I don't have a single pal, keep that in mind. So I'm counting on you to help me out. I only wish I could
have you in my arms so I could hold and squeeze you tight. Remember the things we used to do together. Try
to recognize the dotting. And kiss it. A thousand big kisses, sweetheart, from
Your Darling.”
The dotting that Darling refers to is the outline of his prick. I once saw a pimp who had a hard.on while
writing to his girl place his heavy cock on the paper and trace its contours. I would like that line to portray
Darling.
Fresnes Prison, 1942
Our Lady of the Flowers
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