André Gide - The White Notebook

I must remain frigid in order that there be no mistake, even on the part of my soul … for sometimes.… I must simply clasp and release her hand, bid her goodnight without the kiss of peace. My heart may quiver — but imperceptibly and not violently.

“Loving, adoring, impassioned caresses — I am obsessed by the act of caressing. I would like an all-absorbing, all-encompassing caress, or complete oblivion of self, which constitutes ineffable ecstasy. That is why I suffer so much in the presence of the beauty of statues, for then my being does not blend with theirs but contrasts with it.

… Quoniam nihil inde abradere possunt,

Nee penetrate et abire in corpus corpore toto.

“A little flesh is still infused by virtue of the transparency of the marble. The desire to possess torments me and I suffer piteously, both physically and spiritually, through awareness of the impossibility of possession. I am corrupted, not intoxicated, by the sight of the Thorn Puller, Apollo, the mutilated torso of Diana Reposing.

Nec satiare queunt spectando corpora coram.

“And I suffer still when I think that they will never feel my caresses.

Superfluous, implacable splendor,

O beauty, what pain you cause me!

Impossible union of souls through bodies

… tormented by an embrace.

“Here is the strange part, and the part that has caused me to suffer so much. The soul blends in with everything else, and it becomes impossible to determine whether it harbors desire or whether the flesh is disguised as reverence. So insistently is the soul pushed toward the mysterious bed. …

A caress comes to an end, is ephemeral,

My soul stirs at the sound of a kiss.…

“Et non erat qui cognosceret me … Nor the others, for souls can not know each other. The courses followed by those who are most nearly alike are still PARALLEL.

“So you see that I do not desire you. Your body disturbs me and carnal possession frightens me. We do not love each other according to the dictates of rational love. You could never belong to me, for the things that we long for are never possessed.” 43

12 June

A letter from Pierre and some books. He writes of Paris, of the struggle and of some early triumphs.… Farewell to philosophical calm; this gust of feverish air intoxicates me and rouses dormant visions of glory. My ambitions were slumbering in solitude, but now they have been awakened. Everything militates against my secluded life: a flurry of excitement, of preparations back there. I shall arrive too late for everything. 44

The letter is really good for me. My pride is cut to the quick but I am not defeated. The lash that brings the blood gives me the energy to run even faster. Oh, how strong I feel!

I shall arrive suddenly, without warning, and blow a loud trumpet blast — or perhaps remain unknown but hear my work acclaimed (for I shall withhold my name). 45

I must work frantically, dishonestly. I shall leave here only after the work is finished. And to avoid further disturbances, I am having my mail sent to an imaginary place.

His writing is perfect — callously, impeccably, inexorably so. This discourages me, for to me my language was still fluid and boundless. I wanted to give it rhythmic contours — but emotion always made the sentence explode, and I set down only the debris.

The books are by Verlaine, and I did not know him!

This evening, even though the hour was late, I trimmed and stacked the paper that Pierre sent with the books. The sight of white paper intoxicates me. The black signs which I may use to cover them, which will reveal my thoughts and which when reread later will recall today’s emotions.

I could not sleep because my simmering thoughts were so uncontrollable. I felt the pressure of latent creative forces. Inspiration became something tangible, and the vision of my work was as dazzling as if the work had already been completed. What splendors of aureoles, what flashes of dawn! Then my burning brow, my grandeur stunned me — disorganized thoughts — the feeling of stumbling, a fall — something on the verge of breaking.… Oh, loss of sanity! Suddenly, piously, gripped by indescribable terror, I made a supreme effort to protect my mind and my vision against sudden destruction.

“Forgive me, Lord,” I prayed. “I am but a child, a small child lost on a treacherous byway. O Lord, keep me safe and sane!” 46

Let style and mood blend. And since this is not plastic art, let music exert its influence. Why not even a strophe?

Put your hand in mine, and let our fingers join,

Put your chin on my shoulder, and let our hearts beat as one,

Let your brow come to rest and let your eyes merge with mine.

But let us stop short of a kiss, for fear that love will intervene.

Let us not speak but listen to the singing of your soul

And to the reply of mine through fingers joined;

Hearts in close communion, looks that reciprocate …

Silence — let us not speak.

* * *

Your soul sings in your dark eyes.

Come closer to me, my friend,

You are always too far away.

Closer, ah! come closer still —

How upsetting are your glances!

They seem to smile and your soul to cry.

How far behind your pupils is your soul.

Into the damp darkness of your eyes

Plunges my desire-drenched soul

But your soul keeps retreating

Behind the darkness in your eyes.

“Dearly beloved, ah! turn away, ah! turn away from me

Your eyes, for they disturb me.”

(Alternate: Schumann)

Do not look at me. Speak to me instead — I am listening.

Oh! speak and I shall see you in my dream

Not unlike the inflection of your sweet voice.

Words are unimportant — speak incoherently,

Speak slowly, think of the harmony

That your soul will reveal to me.

* * *

I would like to be lulled to sleep by your words.

* * *

Sometimes I think that pursuit of the elusive soul is a deception and that the soul is but a more subtle manifestation of the mind; reason then advises me to rejoice. Priceless subtleties then ensue:

The effort that my soul makes to reach yours must be instinctive, spontaneous. It must be unconscious and the soul must be lost … in self-contemplation.

Still other subtleties.

They will not indulge in calling and in contemplating each other. If they escape from the body and leap toward each other in a mutual outburst of desire, they collide or their paths cross, but there is no place for them to come to rest.

The result is that they meet in mutual admiration and intermingle on the thing admired. They will thus be oblivious to themselves and will not be troubled by enticing looks, and will not exhaust themselves in the attempt to call each other.

For example, I have at times experienced their fusion when we were reading and admiring each other — when both of us prayed for each other in the mourning room with Lucie, when we watched the same star on a flowery May night and let our tears run together as our cheeks touched and we surrendered our souls to each other.

Still other subtleties — traps set by the bantering mind.

“Our communion is still not perfect.

“I sense the confusion in our souls; I do not sense their fusion.

“In order for mine to blend with yours, I must lose the notion of its resistant life, its consciousness of itself. Then the soul becomes passive.