Jean-Marie Le Clézio - The Flood

One thing that will make it easier for me is that I’m going to die. It’s true. It’s only a question of moments now. I’ve got very little time left. That tube of pink sleeping-pills belonging to my mother — well, I’ve taken the lot. I’ve still got the glass in my hand, I had to drink nearly a quart of water to get them all down. I’m beginning to have feelings of nausea already, and my head’s spinning. I must act quickly now. I want to tell you everything I left out last time. I don’t know where to begin, though. In a few moments everything will be over. I shall be dead. I hope it won’t hurt. Anyway I know now this isn’t just make-believe. What I’m experiencing is the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. I don’t run any risk of, well, of making a fuss about nothing. Not this time. I know what I’m doing is cowardly, but the thing is I couldn’t stand being alone any longer. Loneliness is a horrible thing, you know — that, and knowing you’re past all self-deception. Oh, words used to deceive me all right, well and truly, but that’s finished now. Or will be in a moment or two. Words, words, an endless unnecessary stream of them, all the stuff they teach you and you dish up again thinking it’s your own. And knowing you’re not alone, too. That’s the trouble. No longer being sure what’s part of you and what isn’t, can you understand that? Do what you like, play it flippant, try the couldn’t-care-less line, it’s no good, you’re always screwed in the end. There’s always someone who fixes you — so many people around, everywhere, nothing but people the world over, and things that hurt you, words that raise your hopes only to dash them down more abjectly, and all those emotions — it makes you dizzy thinking how many emotions there are around; love, the sort of love you get in picture magazines, and friendship, hatred, jealousy, rancour, pity, compassion, faith, pride, all that jazz, on and on, never any end to it. And each individual has his own special emotion, and my the trouble he takes over it, waters it like a tender seedling, listens to its complaints, nurses its crises, makes a full-time job of it. I mean, you’ve got to, after all, we’re not animals, are we? Oh, it’s too ridiculous for words. You know, when it comes to the crunch I’m sorry to be shot of all this nonsense. Oh, there were some things I really liked, that’s true. Pity. But as for the rest—! Surely it wasn’t worth all the effort of being born and growing up and struggling through illnesses and going to school — all that just to enjoy a succession of fine delicate emotions? When you’re young, you fall in love. That lands you with problems, right? You fight to make someone else love you. You want to get married, but your parents are against it. You have crises. Crises. Jealousy, too. It’s all so complicated, such a tangle — I mean, civilization’s brought problems to a fine art too, hasn’t it? Well, in the end everything sorts itself out and you get married. Fine. Then there are children, and the problems of education. My son wets his bed at night, doctor, what should I do about it? Or my daughter now, she’s three and a half, she’s a little madam, won’t let anyone order her around. I don’t want to damage her psyche or give her a trauma. What’s the answer? Oh yes, every age-group has its own problems. There’s the midday demon, the menopause, the stepmother’s role. And then old age. Old people are wise, that’s well known. They’ve got their heads screwed on all right, they have their memories, they can’t be really vicious. It’s funny, just so funny …

You see, there’s too much going on in the world for me, I can’t take it, people doing all those things at once, that’s what gets me down. I’ve tried to contract out and just be a spectator. But it’s not possible. They come and search you out. You can hide where you like, it makes no difference, there’s always friends or relatives or somebody after you. They button-hole you and discuss things with you, they’re full of ideas and just bursting with good intentions. They smile a lot, on the street, in cafés, out of photographs in the papers. All right, I’ll admit it, some of them — well, I find them quite touching, they’re so nice , they roll up just like that, they haven’t a clue. And that touches me and hurts me and I need all my will power to resist them, to avoid getting sucked in. That’s what happened with him —Paul, I mean. That’s how he managed to pull a fast one on me. That’s what I wanted to tell you, too — Because I don’t feel at all well now. I’ve got this nausea, I think — I think I’m going to throw up. It’s so idiotic that one can’t die more easily. I wish I could obliterate myself without any effort, just like that, peaceful annihilation. Maybe I’d have done better to put a bullet through my head, but I didn’t happen to own a pistol. And with these pills there’s even a chance that — that I won’t die, after all. They ought to knock me out, and at the moment I feel anything but sleepy. There’s — there’s just this awful feeling of nausea. You know, my mother tried to commit suicide once, when she was a young girl. She threw herself into the river, but someone fished her out again. She had no idea why she did it, but in any case it wasn’t because she’d been jilted. Apparently she’d had a whitlow on her thumb, and had been in a depressed state after taking antibiotics. There are people who say that when you do something like that you’re temporarily insane. But seriously, François, I do assure you I’m not mad. You can’t conceive just how much I’m conscious of what I’m about. On my word of honour, I can see the whole thing very clearly, black and white, and in the most minute detail. It’s as though, well, as though my body had had enough of living, as though it was absolutely exhausted, and had to sleep. I’m living in a desert, that’s the long and short of it. There’s nothing whatsoever to hold me back. It’s weird, François — everything being such a desert, I mean. It’s hard to imagine what it’s like. You’re in a sort of bubble, and everyone’s deaf, they can’t hear you screaming, and your voice bounces back at you like a ball, like — it’s difficult for me to say this, François, but there ought to be a God…. When anyone’s reached this point, how can you expect them to turn back? You can’t turn the desert into — I mean, it would be mere illusion, and anyway you can’t go on deceiving yourself all that long. There’s no pleasure in anything any longer. I–I was right to take these pills, because I honestly believe I’ve come to the end of the road, whichever way you look at it. That was my basic motive. Maybe I should have just let myself starve to death. I’d given up, lost my belief in anything. So had my body, that I’m sure of. So—

I don’t know if evening’s coming on, or if it’s the effect of the pills, but I feel everything’s getting dark. There’s a slight chill in my legs and hands, too. I don’t feel I want to throw up any more now. But I’m getting stomach cramps— ooh , they hurt like hell — What was I saying? Yes, well, it’s — that’s how it is, and I’m going to be able to rest now. When the pain stops. What I ought to have had, when you really get down to it, is some sort of deformity — a leg withered by polio, or a club-foot, or a hunched back, some very obvious defect, a constant source of suffering. That would have given me something to hang on to. I once knew a girl who had one leg shorter than the other. She used to walk by under our apartment every day. She had an awful limp. But there was something about her face and bearing — a sort of pride, can you understand that? I’d have liked to be the way she was. Maybe then I’d have had the same courage and will-power — I realize that now, when I’m feeling so frightful— a-ah-aah , oh God, yes, that’s what I needed. Blind! That’s what I ought to have been. Too late now. I’m passing the secret on to you. It might even have saved me. Weakness, disability. With a white stick. Seeing nothing, seeing nothing people would have moved aside to let me pass. There’d have been no need for me to say or do anything, just the struggle for survival. I’d have had, oh, big black glasses made out of plastic, and I’d have learnt to feel things out with my finger-tips. Warm colours, cold colours…. I’d have really listened, used my ears. The feel of blackness. Not seeing anything, ever again…. Blind! That’s it, tossed like a parcel into areas of movement, feeling my way. Armed with a stick. The victim’s weapon. — Too late now…. I’ve taken these pink pills…