Marie Borel, p.7

The curtain opens and a valley is discovered. It’s not only next to houses that lindens spring up. Necessities of life go moldy in this total monotony. He hated that mixture of resignation and the kind of blind love that leads us to overlook the contradictions and half-measures of life, as a maiden aunt secretes the wild oats of a nephew.

Paul the Apostle is a liar. (God does suffer us to be tempted above that we are able.) Fear is a passion. As for intelligence, it’s obvious how little it influences regard for social conventions. On what worldless background do we eventually have to present our images of the world? We’d like to live like anywhere. For a couple weeks it’s not worth lying. On death row they don’t go sightseeing. Moral nature in decay, voluptuous indifference. Too much yacking. As if I’d swallowed some green plant.