... I have been dreaming alone since
ten o'clock at the window, while the stars twinkled among the clouds,
and
the lights of the neighbors disappeared one by one in the houses
round. Dreaming of what? Of the meaning of
this tragic comedy which
we call life. Alas! alas! I was as melancholy as the preacher. A
hundred years
seemed to me a dream, life a breath, and everything a
nothing. What tortures of mind and soul, and all that we
may die in
a few minutes! What should interest us, and why?
“Le temps n'est rien pour l'ame,
enfant, ta vie est pleine,
Et ce jour vaut cent ans, s'il te fait
trouver Dieu.”
To make an object for myself, to hope,
to struggle, seems to me more and more impossible and amazing. At
twenty I was the embodiment of curiosity, elasticity and spiritual
ubiquity; at thirty−seven I have not a will, a
desire, or a talent
left; the fireworks of my youth have left nothing but a handful of
ashes behind them.
Amiel's Journal
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