Les Pensées (43)

At first, Artaud felt exhilarated by the shallow but fierce current of the impulse of love that erupted, but the feeling quickly washed away again by the brutal tide of nocturnal sadness, dragged along by the blind darkness of the evening.

Les Pensées (42)

Artaud danced along the room moved by the uncontrollable motion of love, until he crushed unto both his knees exhausted and in the realization that his greatest passion had just eluded him.

Les Pensées (41)

Artaud sat on the waterside and admired the play of light and shadow on the water surface before him, reflecting the naked limbs of two girls swimming toward him. One looked pure and divine, the other pensive and keen. Artaud picked a flower and threw it in the water, following it with his gaze as it drifted away on the ripples following the two girls pass him.

Les Pensées (40)

Artaud had always loved the thrill of illicit pleasures so much that he confessed his shameful thoughts, to himself, then to everyone, until he had no more secrets to expose and he could only provoke other people with outrageous fantasies, until everything had become so normal that it bored him, and he could only find some final satisfaction in extracting the confession of a remote stranger, to whom he listened with the most sincere empathy and endless patience, reminiscent of an abandoned capacity to get excited by his own little common secrets that he had lost forever.

Les Pensées (39)

Artaud was reminded of Kurt Vonnegut's quote that we are who we pretend to be. Having pursued truth all his life, Artaud reflected now that he was no one.

Les Pensées (38)

A bright glare of light filled the room in the early brisk morning. Artaud felt uninspired.

Les Pensées (37)

Artaud held her hand, looked into the depth of her eyes fixated on his, and was pleased to watch her gentle smile, but he sadly mistook her unwillingly calculated New York utilitarianism for loving kindness.

Les Pensées (36)

Artaud smiled with resignation. Nor suffering, nor happiness was any more his share. What remained was a deep ache, a colorless and unfulfilled longing, some mistake for a passionate love.

Les Pensées (35)

Artaud placed his knees gently on the pebbles and sat besides the dark green, cast-iron little table. He took her foot and pressed his soft, cold cheek against the hard, warm shin of her left leg. Only now did Artaud feel the calm of sanity sooth his thoughts.

Les Pensées (34)

Artaud sat on an iron terrace chair and felt the heated metal press against his muscled thighs. He stretched out his feet to rest his heels on the stone wall, one foot crossed over the other, the brick edge cutting into his Achilles tendon.

Les Pensées (33)

Artaud pressed his nose against the window and stared at the dry streets where a single pedestrian trailed his lap dog curiously sniffing the concrete, and realized his life was a sequence of unfulfilled expectations.

Les Pensées (32)

Artaud looked at the skeletons that kicked their feet out before them, swinging their arms backward in a single balanced and coordinated motion of what seemed to be living bodies, but so soulless, heartless and without opinions that they thought of it as simply very professional.

Les Pensées (28)

To Artaud happiness and joy meant little.

Les Pensées (27)

Artaud looked down at the street through the cracks of the white blinds in the window, and only saw the flickering spots of head lights that jumped from one to the other black line like a child dancing over the crosswalk, and realized that from the outside in, a view through his window on his life must look not much different.

Les Pensées (26)

Artaud decided not to undertake anything today and let himself be simply carried down the stream of his emotions without action until finally the evening would come and he could go to sleep and forget about the uneventful happenings of the day.

Les Pensées (25)

Artaud hardly looked where he was walking, he followed the stream of faces toward their source at the end of the long road, hollow, bony faces, fat, full faces, only every now and then, but rarely, a charming flower bobbed by.

Les Pensées (24)

Artaud had always remained Artaud, or in other words, he never had really been Artaud.

Les Pensées (23)

Artaud looked outside at the blood red brick facade against the fierce blue sky. A car blew its harsh horn breaking the air that cracked wide open, a second horn follows in canon with an interval, more distant. Artaud listened without a thought to the more distant claxons, sirens, and rumbling engines in absolute silence.

Les Pensées (22)

Artaud deliberately stepped flat into the puddle of rainwater at the curb's edge on the corner of the street, the water splashed up, breaking into small drops, and splattered onto the dry cotton of his pants. Artaud realized that death did not matter.

Les Pensées (21)

Artaud stepped through the drizzle as if the rain beat on his face like the gentle rays of sunlight, he looked up and admired the modest and gray sky, and felt the wet relief of the water touch his face's skin like a soft brush, like the fingers of a lover rolling down his chest.