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Updated: May 8, 2025
I had used but twenty-two years of my life, there were fifty left to write in, and what couldn't you write in fifty years! Often, sitting here at night, I would get an idea and begin to work, and I would keep on until at last the enormous old woman who kept the café we called her "The Blessed Damozel" would come lumbering out and good humoredly growl, "Couches-toi donc. Une heure vient de sonner."
In my room I eagerly wrote it all down and added what I myself could remember. Here from my bedroom window I tried to see what I had seen as a boy, the immaculate white of the tall sails, the fresh blue and green of the dancing waves. Oh, I was romancing finely those nights! And there came no Blessed Damozel to say to me gruffly, "Couches-toi. Il est tard."
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