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.I was trembling.I was aware of the vagueness of our feelings and desires.She talked ramblingly, but now I knew she was talking to cover a deeper talk, talking against the things we could not express.I came back from walking with her to the station dazed, exhausted, elated, happy, unhappy.I wanted to ask her forgiveness for my questions.They had been so unsubtle, so unlike me.We met the next day at the American Express.She came in her tailored suit because I had said that I liked it.She had said that she wanted nothing from me but the perfume I wore and my wine-colored handkerchief.But I reminded her she had promised she would let me buy her sandals.First of all, I took her to the ladies' room.I opened my bag and took out a pair of sheer black stockings."Put them on," I said, pleading and apologizing at the same time.She obeyed.Meanwhile I opened a bottle of perfume."Put some on."June had a hole in her sleeve.I was happy, and June was exultant.We talked simultaneously."I wanted to call you last night." "I wanted to send you a telegram last night." June said, "I wanted to tell you how unhappy I was on the train, regretting my awkwardness, my nervousness, my pointless talk.There was so much, so much I wanted to say."We had the same fears of displeasing each other, of disappointing each other.She had gone to the café in the evening to meet Henry."I felt as if drugged.I was full of thoughts of you.People's voices reached me from afar.I was elated.I could not sleep all night.What have you done to me?"She added, "I was always poised, I could always talk well.People never overwhelmed me."When I realized what she was revealing to me, I was overjoyed.I overwhelm her? She loved me then? June! She sat beside me in the restaurant, small, timid, unworldly, panic-stricken, and I was moved, I was almost unbearably moved.June different, upset, changed, yielding, when she had made me so different, she had made me impulsive, strong.She would say something and then beg forgiveness for its stupidity.I could not bear her humility.I told her, "We have both lost ourselves, but that is when one reveals most of one's true self.You've revealed your incredible sensitiveness.I am so moved.You are like me, wishing for such perfect moments, and frightened for fear of spoiling them.Neither one of us was prepared for this, and we had imagined it too long.Let's be overwhelmed, it is so lovely.I love you, June."And not knowing what else to say, I spread between us on the seat the wine-colored handkerchief she wanted, my coral earrings, my turquoise ring.It was blood I wanted to lay at June's feet, before June's incredible humility.Then she began to talk beautifully, not hysterically, but deeply.We walked to the sandal shop.In the shop the ugly woman who waited on us hated us and our obvious happiness.I held June's hand firmly.I commanded: "Bring this.Bring that." I was firm, willful with the woman.When she mentioned the width of June's feet I scolded her.June could not understand the Frenchwoman, but she sensed that she was disagreeable.We chose sandals like mine.She refused everything else, anything that was not symbolic or representative of me.Everything I wore she would wear, although she said she had never wanted to imitate anyone else ever before.When we walked the streets, bodies close together, arm in arm, hands locked, I was in such ecstasy I could not talk.The city disappeared, and so did the people.The acute joy of our walking together through the grey streets of Paris I shall never forget, and I shall never be able to describe it.We were walking above the world, above reality, into pure, pure ecstasy.I discovered June's purity.It was June's purity I was given to possess, what she had given to no one else.To me she gave the secret of her being, the woman whose face and body have aroused instincts around her which left her untouched, which terrified her.As I had sensed, her destructiveness is unconscious.She is imprisoned in it, and detached, and bewildered.When she met me, she revealed her innocent self.She lives in fantasies, not in the world Henry lives in.***Henry had written of a dangerous and venomous woman.To me she confided her detachment from the realities of Henry's world, her complete absorption in fantasies, her madnesses.So many people had sought the way into June's true nature and had not guessed the strength and fullness of her imaginative world, her isolation, the June who lives in symbols, who shrinks from crudeness.I brought June into my world.June did not take me into her violent and harsh world because it is not hers.She came to me because she likes to dream.All at once I knew, too, that the sensual and perverse world in which she reigns is closed to me again.Do I regret it? She came to me when I was hungry for reality.I wanted real experiences which would free me of my fantasies, my daydreaming.She turned me away from Henry, who ruled that world of earthy, lusty harsh facts.She has thrown me back into visions, dreams.But if I were made for reality, for ordinary experience, I would not have loved her.I have a greater need of illusion and dreams, then, than I have of Henry's animal world.She said yesterday, "There are so many things I would love to do with you.With you I would take drugs."June does not accept a gift which has no symbolic significance.June washes laundry to be able to buy herself a bit of perfume.June is not afraid of poverty and drabness, is untouched by it, is untouched by the drunkenness of her friends (her drunkenness is so different, it's more like an exaltation).June selects and discards people with evaluations unknown to Henry.When June tells her endless anecdotes now, I understand they are ways of escape, disguises for a self which lives secretly behind that smoke-screen talk.I think so much about her, all day, all night.As soon as I left hei yesterday, there was a painful void, and I shivered with cold.I love her extravagances, her humility, her fears of disillusion.The struggle for expression was not as acute for me before I met June.Her talk is like my secret writing.At times incoherent, at times abstract, at times blind.Let incoherence be, then.Our meeting each other has been emotionally too disturbing.Both of us had one inviolate self we never gave.It was our dreaming self.Now we have invaded this world in each other.She is too rich to be fully known in a few days.She says I am too rich for her.We want to separate and regain our lucidity.But I have fewer fears than she has.I would not separate from her of my own free will.I want to give myself away, to lose myself.Before her I repudiate all I have done, all that I am.I aspire to more.I am ashamed of my writing.I want to throw everything away and begin anew.I have a terror of disappointing her.Her idealism is so demanding.It awes me.With her I feel timelessness.Our talk is only half-talk.When she talks on the surface, it is because she is afraid of the rich silences between us.In the silence, the quietness of my gestures calms her agitation.If she had wanted to, yesterday, I would have sat on the floor at her feet and placed my head against her knees.But she would not let me.Yet at the station while we waited for the train, she begged for my hand.I turned away and ran, as if in panic.The station master stopped me to sell me some charity tickets.I bought them and gave them to him, wishing him luck with the lottery.He got the benefit of my wanting to give to June, to whom one cannot give anything.Yet I have given her life.She died in Paris.She died the night she read Henry's book [manuscript version of Tropic of Cancer], because of his brutality [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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