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Updated: June 15, 2025
Isis lilts the corner of her veil, and he who perceives the great mystery beneath is struck with giddiness. I can scarcely breathe. It seems to me that I am hanging by a thread above the fathomless abyss of destiny. Is this the Infinite face to face, an intuition of the last great death? "Creature d'un jour qui t'agites une heure, Ton ame est immortelle et tes pleurs vont finir." Finir?
When we walk down the steep, quaint streets to revel in the purchase of moccasins and water-proof coats and camping supplies, we read on a wall the familiar but transformed legend, L'enfant pleurs, il veut son Camphoria, and remember with joy that no infant who weeps in French can impose any responsibility upon us in these days of our renewed honeymoon.
In reply Boris wrote these lines: Aliment de poison d'une ame trop sensible, Toi, sans qui le bonheur me serait impossible, Tendre melancholie, ah, viens me consoler, Viens calmer les tourments de ma sombre retraite, Et mele une douceur secrete A ces pleurs que je sens couler. *
He resembled Gilbert, and he might have written those lines of his, which will live as long as the lamentations of Job, in the language of men: Au banquet de la vie, infortuné convive, J'apparus un jour et je meurs; Je meurs, et sur ma tombe, où lentement j'arrive, Nul ne viendra verser des pleurs!
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