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Updated: July 19, 2025
"It will take time before my amusement ripens into rages. And without rages work is impossible. I will wait. Now I am too indifferent for anything but happiness. It is easy to walk and forget one's self and one's senses. It will come back. Mallare will return and expend himself naively in decorations once more. "When I am strong again I will hunt up a woman.
This meant that she belonged to him. She had said, "Yours." Her face smiled itself to sleep. From the Journal of Mallare dated November. "I no longer understand myself. My thoughts stretch themselves into baffling elasticities. My brain is a labyrinth through which reason searches in vain for itself. I walk cautiously. Yet I am lost.
And within himself Mallare continued the strange conversation. "You see how simple it is," he said. "After you are dead I will continue to enjoy for a time the uninterrupted image of you. You will haunt my thought until you grow dim. But I will possess the vanishing shadow.... But now you die." Mallare tightened his hold on the beggar's neck and the man's cries ended. His head fell forward.
This blubberer who had followed me home in the snow, yes this insufferable melancholiac who rained his tears into my Heaven Mallare would have killed him. "But he was too sly. He slipped away and sprawled around the room. He beat his hands against walls and tore at his hair. I followed watching him and coaxing him to come close once more. I smiled at him to come near again. But no, he avoided me.
Mallare held the dead figure erect, shaking it gently and smiling at the one in his thought. "Ah, Rita," he whispered, "it is over now." His hands released the throat they were holding. The beggar fell to the ground. Mallare stared at the body and then knelt beside it. His hands passed over the dead face. "Poor Rita," he continued. "No longer dangerous."
"'I have undermined the infatuation of this phantom, I thought. I would have been elate but it occurred to me there was an inconsistency. This dumb one, this sniveling one, persisted. 'And how should he, who was dependent upon her death for his existence, persist in her presence? This was a question for Mallare, the indifferent one. This was a query to answer.
There were clay and bronze figures and canvases covered with paintings. These had been the work of his hands. It was to be seen that he had once given himself with violence to the creation of images. And for this reason he was still known among a few people as an artist. In the days when he had worked to create images Mallare had been alive with derisions. He desired to give them outline.
For if this chimera had been able to trick them into the illusion of love, it was entirely natural that it should be able to trick them now into the illusion of death. With the exception that death is an illusion even Mallare, the indifferent one, might not survive. "Ah, Mallare, Mallare! He wanders pensively amid treacherous shadows Mallare an image debating subtly the existence of its mirror.
Alas, I love myself too much, for the passion for Mallare with which my madness endows this illusion of a woman, threatens me. My senses have already abandoned me. They no longer obey the direction of my will. And I must stand like a scold, laughing and sneering at them as they yield themselves to her.
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