Un coeur qui nous oublie, engage notre gloire./ Il faut à l'oublier, mettre aussi tous nos soins./ Si l'on n'en vient à bout, on le doit feindre au moins;/ Et cette lâcheté jamais ne se pardonne,/ De montrer de l'amour pour qui nous abandonne.
She asked if I would like her to sing something. I replied no, I would like her to say something. I thought she would say she had nothing to say, it would have been like her, and so was agreeably surprised when she said she had a room, most agreeably surprised, though I suspected as much. Who has not a room? Ah I hear the clamour. I have two rooms, she said. Just how many rooms do you have? I said. She said she had two rooms and a kitchen. The premises were expanding steadily, given time she would remember a bathroom. Is it two rooms I heard you say? I said. Yes, she said. Adjacent? I said. At last conversation worthy of the name. Separated by the kitchen, she said. I asked her why she had not told me before. I must have been beside myself, at this period. I did not feel easy when I was with her, but at least free to think of something else than her, of the old trusty things, and so little by little, as down steps towards a deep, of nothing. And I knew that away from her I would forfeit this freedom.
Samuel Beckett, (1970). First love. In: First love and other novellas, 78. London: Penguin Modern Classics, 2000
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