Wednesdays thatI eat lunch, thanks to Borowski. Elsa is still
telephoning _ she forgotto order a piece of bacon. "Yes, a nice little piece
of bacon, not toofatty, " she says. . . .ut alors! Throw in some
sweetbreads,throw in some mountain oysters and some psst clams! Throw in
some friedliverwurst while you're at it; I could gobble up the fifteen
hundredplays of Lope de Vega in one sitting.
    It is a beautifulwoman who has come to look at the apartment. An American,
of course.I stand at the window with my back to her watching a sparrow
peckingat a fresh turd. Amazing how easily the sparrow is provided for. Itis
raining a bit and the drops are very big. I used to think a birdcouldn't fly
if its wings got wet. Amazing how these rich dames cometo Paris and find all
the swell studios. A little talent and a big purse.If it rains they have a
chance to display their brand new slickers.Food is nothing: sometimes
they're so busy gadding about that they haven'ttime for lunch. Just a little
sandwich, a wafer, at the Cafe de la Paixor the Ritz Bar. "For the daughters
of gentlefolk only" - - that's whatit says at the old studio of Puvis de
Chavannes. Happened to pass therethe other day. Rich American cunts with
paint boxes slung over theirshoulders. A little talent and a fat purse.
    The sparrow ishopping frantically from one cobblestone to another. Truly
herculeanefforts, if you stop to examine closely. Everywhere there is food
lyingabout _ in the gutter, I mean. The beautiful American woman is
inquiringabout the toilet. The toilet! Let me show you, you velvet-snooted
gazelle!The toilet, you say? Par id, Madame. N'ouhliez pas que Us
placesnumerotees sont reservees aux mutiles de la guerre.
    Boris is rubbinghis hands _ he is putting the finishing touches to the
deal. The dogsare barking in the courtyard; they bark like wolves. Upstairs
Mrs. Melvernessis moving the furniture around. She had nothing to do all day.
she'sbored; if she finds a crumb of dirt anywhere she cleans the whole
house.There's a bunch of green grapes on the table and a bottle of wine _vin
de choix, ten degrees. "Yes, " says Boris. "I could makea washstand for you,
just come here, please. Yes, this is the toilet.There is one upstairs too,
of course. Yes. a thousand francs a month.You don't care much for Utrillo,
you say? No. this is it. It needs anew washer, that's all. ..."

    She's going ina minute now. Boris hasn't even introduced me this time.
The son ofa bitch! Whenever it's a rich cunt he forgets to introduce me. In
afew minutes be able to sit down again and type. Somehow I don't feellike it
any more today. My spirit is dribbling away. She may come backin an hour or
so and take the chair from under my ass. How the hellcan a man write when he
doesn't know where he's going to sit the nexthalf-hour? If this rich bastard
takes the place I won't even have aplace to sleep. It's hard to know, when
you're in such a jam, whichis worse _ not having a place to sleep or not
having a place to work.One can sleep almost anywhere, but one must have a
place to work. Evenif it's not a masterpiece you're doing. Even a bad novel
requires achair to sit on and a bit of privacy. These rich cunts never think
ofa thing like that. Whenever they want to lower their soft behinds
there'salways a chair standing ready for them. . . .
    Last night weleft Sylvester and his God sitting together before the
hearth. Sylvesterin his pajamas. Moldorf with a cigar between his lips.
Sylvester ispeeling an orange. He puts the peel on the couch cover. Moldorf
drawscloser to him. He asks permission to read again that brilliant
parody.The Gates of Heaven. We are getting ready to go, Boris and I.We are
too gay for this sickroom atmosphere. Tania is going with us.She is gay
because she is going to escape. Boris is gay because theGod in Moldorf is
dead. I am gay because it is another act we are goingto put on.
    Moldorf's voiceis reverent. "Can I stay with you, Sylvester. until you
go to bed? "He has been staying with him for the last six days. buying
medicine,running errands for Tania. comforting. consoling, guarding the
portalsagainst malevolent intruders like Boris and his scalawags. He is
likea savage who has discovered that his idol was mutilated during the
night.There he sits. at the idol's feet. with breadfruit and grease and
jabberwockyprayers. His voice goes out unctuously. His limbs are already
paralyzed.
    To Tania he speaksas if she were a priestess who had broken her vows.
"You must make yourselfworthy. Sylvester is your God. " And while Sylvester
is upstairs suffering(he has a little wheeze in the chest) the priest and
the priestess devourthe food. "You are polluting yourself, " he says, the
gravy drippingfrom his

    lips. He hasthe capacity for eating and suffering at the same time.
While he fendsoff the dangerous ones he puts out his fat little paw and
strokes Tania'shair. "I'm beginning to fall in love with you. You are like
my Fanny."
    In other respectsit has been a fine day for Moldorf. A letter arrived
from America. Moeis getting A's in everything. Murray is learning to ride
the bicycle.The victrola was repaired. You can see from the expression on
his facethat there were other things in the letter besides report cards
andvelocipedes. You can be sure of it because this afternoon he boughtfrancs
worth of jewelry for his Fanny. In addition he wrote her a twenty-pageletter.
The garym brought him page after page, filled his fountainpen, served his
coffee and cigars, fanned him a little when he perspired,brushed the crumbs
from the table, lit his cigar when it went out, boughtstamps for him, danced
on him. pirouetted, salaamed. .. broke his spinedamned near. The tip was fat.
Bigger and fatter than a Corona Corona.Moldorf probably mentioned it in his
diary. It was for Fanny's sake.The bracelet and the earrings, they were
worth every sou he spent. Betterto spend it on Fanny than waste it on little
strumpets like Germaineand Odette. Yes. he told Tania so. He showed her his
trunk. It is crammedwith gifts _ for Fanny, and for Moe and Murray.
    "My Fanny isthe most intelligent woman in the world. I have been
searching and searchingto find a flaw in her _ but there's not one.
    "She's perfect.Ill tell you what Fanny can do. She plays bridge like a
shark; she'sinterested in Zionism; you give her an old hat, for instance,and
see what she can do with it. A little twist here. a ribbon there,and voila
quelque chose de beau! Do you know what is perfectbliss? To sit beside Fanny,
when Moe and Murray have gone to bed. andlisten to the radio. She sits there
so peacefully. I am rewarded forall my struggles and heartaches in just
watching her. She listens intelligently.When I think of your stinking
Montparnasse and then of my evenings inBay Ridge with Fanny after a big meal,
I tell you there is no comparison.A simple thing like food, the children,
the soft lamps, and Fanny sittingthere, a little tired, but cheerful,
contented, heavy with bread. .. we just sit there for hours without saying a
word. That's bliss!

    "Today she writesme a letter _ not one of those dull stock-report letters.
She writesme from the heart, in language that even my little Murray could
understand.She's delicate about everything, Fanny. She says that the
children mustcontinue their education but the expense worries her. It will
cost athousand bucks to send little Murray to school. Moe, of course,
willget a scholarship. But little Murray, that little genius, Murray,
whatare we going to do about him? I wrote Fanny not to worry. Send Murrayto
school, I said. What's another thousand dollars? make more moneythis year
than ever before. Ill do it for little Murray _ because he'sa genius, that
kid. "
    I should liketo be there when Fanny opens the trunk. "See, Fanny, this
is what Ibought in Budapest from an old Jew. . . . This is what they wear
inBulgaria _ it's pure wool. . . . This belonged to the Duke of somethingor
other _ no, you don't wind it, you put it in the sun. . . . ThisI want you
to wear. Fanny, when we go to the Opera. . . wear it withthat comb I showed
you. . . . And this, Fanny, is something Tania pickedup for me. . . she's a
little bit on your type. ..."
    And Fanny issitting there on the settee, just as she was in the oleograph,
withMoe on one side of her and little Murray, Murray the genius, on theother.
Her fat legs are a little too short to reach the floor. Her eyeshave a dull
permanganate glow. Breasts like ripe red cabbage; they bobblea little when
she leans forward. But the sad thing about her is thatthe juice has been cut
off. She sits there like a dead storage battery; her face is out of plumb _
it needs a little animation, a sudden spurtof juice to bring it back into
focus. Moldorf is jumping around in frontof her like a fat toad. His flesh
quivers. He slips and it is difficultfor him to roll over again on his belly.
She prods him with her thicktoes. His eyes protrude a little further. "Kick
me again. Fanny, thatwas good. " She gives him a good prod this time _ it
leaves a permanentdent in his paunch. His face is close to the carpet; the
wattles arejoggling in the nap of the rug. He livens up a bit, flips around,
springsfrom furniture to furniture. "Fanny, you are marvelous! " He is
sittingnow on her shoulder. He bites a little piece from her ear, just a
littletip from the lobe where it doesn't hurt. But she's still dead _
allstorage battery and no juice. He falls on her lap and lies there
quiveringlike a toothache. He isall warm now and helpless. His belly
glistens like a patentleather shoe.In the sockets of his eyes a pair of
fancy vest buttons. "Unbutton myeyes. Fanny. I want to see you better! "
Fanny carries him to bed anddrops a little hot wax over his eyes. She puts
rings around his naveland a thermometer up his ass. She places him and he
quivers again. Suddenlyhe's dwindled, shrunk completely out of sight. She
searches all overfor him, in her intestines, everywhere. Something is
tickling her _she doesn't know where exactly. The bed is full of toads and
fancy vestbuttons. "Fanny, where are you?" Something is tickling her _ she
can'tsay where. The buttons are dropping off the bed. The toads are
climbingthe walls. A tickling and a tickling. "Fanny, take the wax out of
myeyes! I want to look at you! " But Fanny is laughing, squirming
withlaughter. There is something inside her. tickling and tickling.
She'lldie laughing if she doesn't find it. "F'anny, the trunk is full of
beautifulthings. Fanny, do you hear me? " Fanny is laughing, laughing like
afat worm. Her belly is swollen with laughter. Her legs are getting blue."
God. Morris, there is something tickling me. ... I can't help it!"  s
    unday! Left theVilla Borghese a little before noon, just as Boris was
getting readyto sit down to lunch. I left out of a sense of delicacy,
because itreally pains Boris to see me sitting there in the studio with an
emptybelly. Why he doesn't invite me to lunch with him I don't know. He
sayshe can't afford it, but that's no excuse. Anyway, I'm delicate aboutit.
If it pains him to eat alone in my presence it would probably painhim more
to share his meal with me. It's not my place to pry into hissecret affairs.
    Dropped in atthe Cronstadts' and they were eating too. A young chicken
with wildrice. Pretended that I had eaten already, but I could have torn
thechicken from the baby's hands. This is not just false modesty _ it'sa
kind of perversion. I'm thinking. Twice they asked me if I wouldn'tjoin them.
No! No! Wouldn't even accept a cup of coffee after the meal.I'm delicat, I am!
On the way out I cast a lingering glance atthe bones lying on the baby's
plate -there was still meat on them.
    Prowling aroundaimlessly. A beautiful day _ so far. The Rue de Buci is
alive, crawling.The bars wide open and the curbs lined with bicycles. All
the meat andvegetable markets are in full swing. Arms loaded with truck
bandagedin newspapers. A fine Catholic Sunday _ in the morning, at least.
    High noon andhere I am standing on an empty belly at the confluence of
all thesecrooked lanes that reek with the odor of food. Opposite me is the
Hotelde Louisiane. A grim old hostelry known to the bad boys of the Rue
deBuci in the good old days. Hotels and food, and I'm walking about likea
leper with crabs gnawing at my entrails. On Sunday mornings there'sa fever
in the streets. Nothing like it anywhere, except perhaps onthe East Side, or
down around Chatham Square. The Rue de 'Echaude isseething. The streets
twist and turn, at every angle a fresh hive ofactivity. Long queues of
people with vegetables under their arms, turningin here and there with crisp,
sparkling appetites. Nothing but food.food, food. Makes one delirious.

    Pass the Squarede Furstenberg. Looks different now. At high noon. The
other night whenI passed by it was deserted, bleak. spectral. In the middle
of the squarefour black trees that have not yet begun to blossom.
Intellectual trees,nourished by the paving stones. Like T. S. Eliot's verse.
Here, by God,if Marie Laurencin ever brought her Lesbians out into the open.
wouldbe the place for them to commune. Tres leshienne ici. Sterile,hybrid,
dry as Boris' heart.
    In the littlegarden adjoining the Eglise St. Germain are a few
dismounted gargoyles.Monsters that jut forward with a terrifying plunge. On
the benches othermonsters _ old people, idiots, cripples, epileptics.
Snoozing therequietly, waiting for the dinner bell to ring. At the Galerie
Zak acrossthe way some imbecile has made a picture of the cosmos -_ on
theflat. A painter's cosmos' Full of odds and ends. bric-a-bric. Inthe lower
left-hand corner, however, there's an anchor _ and a dinnerbell. Salute!
Salute! Cosmos!
    Still prowlingaround. Mid afternoon. Guts rattling. Beginning to rain now.
Notre-Damerises tomblike from the water. The gargoyles lean far out over the
lacefacade. They hang there like an idee fixe in the mind of a monomaniac.An
old man with yellow whiskers approaches me. Has some Jaworski nonsensein his
hand. Comes up to me with his head thrown back and the rain splashingin his
face turns the golden sands to mud. Bookstore with some of RaoulDuty's
drawings in the window. Drawings of charwomen with rosebushesbetween their
legs. A treatise on the philosophy of Joan Miro. The philosophy,mind you!
    In the same window:A Man Cut In Slices' Chapter one: the man in the eyes
of hisfamily. Chapter two: the same in the eyes of his mistress. Chapter
three:_ No chapter three. Have to come back tomorrow for chapters three
andfour. Every day the window trimmer turns a fresh page. A man cutin slices.
. . . You can't imagine how furious I am not to havethought of a title like
that! Where is this bloke who writes "the samein the eyes of his mistress. . .
the same in the eyes of. . . the same.. . '?" Where is this guy? Who is he?
I want to hug him. I wish to ChristI had had brains enough to think of a
title like that _ instead of CrazyCock and the other fool things I invented.
Well. fuck a duck! Icongratulate him just the

    I wish him luckwith his fine title. Here's another slice for you _ for
your next book!Ring me up some day. I'm living at the Villa Borghese. We're
all dead,or dying, or about to die. We need good titles. We need meat _
slicesand slices of meat _ juicy tenderloins, porterhouse steaks,
kidneys,mountain oysters, sweetbreads. Some day, when I'm standing at the
cornerof nd Street and Broadway, I'm going to remember this title and
I'mgoing to put down everything that goes on in my noodle _ caviar, raindrops,
axle grease, vermicelli, liverwurst _ slices and slices of it.And tell no
one why. after I had put everything down. I suddenly wenthome and chopped
the baby to pieces. Un acte gratuit pour vous, chermonsieur si bien coupe en
tranches!
    How a man canwander about all day on an empty belly, and even get an
erection oncein a while, is one of those mysteries which are too easily
explainedby the "anatomists of the soul. " On a Sunday afternoon, when the
shuttersare down and the proletariat possesses the street in a kind of
dumbtorpor, there are certain thoroughfares which remind one of nothingless
than a big chancrous cock laid open longitudinally. And it is justthese
highways, the Rue St. Denis, for instance, or the Faubourg duTemple _ which
attract one irresistibly, much as in the old days. aroundUnion Square or the
upper reaches of the Bowery, one was drawn to thedime museums where in the
show windows there were displayed wax reproductionsof various organs of the
body eaten away by syphilis and other venerealdiseases. The city sprouts out
like a huge organism diseased in everypart, the beautiful thoroughfares only
a little less repulsive becausethey have been drained of their pus.
    At the Cite Nortier,somewhere near the Place du Combat, I pause a few
minutes to drink inthe full squalor of the scene. It is a rectangular court
like many anotherwhich one glimpses through the low passageways that flank
the old arteriesof Paris. In the middle of the court is a clump of decrepit
buildingswhich have so rotted away that they have collapsed on one another
andformed a sort of intestinal embrace. The ground is uneven, the
flaggingslippery with slime. A sort of human dump heap which has been
filledin with cinders and dry garbage. The sun is setting fast. The colorsdie.
They shift from purple to dried blood, from nacre to bister.

    from cool deadgrays to pigeon shit. Here and there a lopsided monster
stands in thewindow blinking like an owl. There is the shrill squawk of
childrenwith pale faces and bony limbs, rickety little urchins marked with
theforceps. A fetid odor seeps from the walls. the odor of a mildewed
mattress.Europe _ medieval, grotesque, monstrous: a symphony in B-mol.
Directlyacross the street the Cine Combat offers its distinguished
clienteleMetropolis.
    Coming away mymind reverts to a book that I was reading only the other
day. "The townwas a shambles; corpses, mangled by butchers and stripped by
plunderers,lay thick in the streets; wolves sneaked from the suburbs to eat
them; the black death and other plagues crept in to keep them company,
andthe English came marching on; the while the danse macabre whirledabout
the tombs in all the cemeteries. ..." Paris during the days ofCharles the
Silly! A lovely book! Refreshing, appetizing. I'm stillenchanted by it.
About the patrons and prodromes of the RenaissanceI know little, but Madam
Pimpernel, la belle houlangere, andMaitre Jehan Crapotte. I'orfevre, these
occupy my spare thoughtsstill. Not forgetting Rodin, the evil genius of The
Wandering Jew,who practiced his nefarious ways "until the day when he was
enflamedand outwitted by the octoroon Cecily. " Sitting in the Square du
Temple.musing over the doings of the horse knackers led by Jean Caboche,
Ihave thought long and ruefully over the sad fate of Charles the Silly.A
halfwit, who prowled about the halls of his Hotel St. Paul. garbedin the
filthiest rags. eaten away by ulcers and vermin, gnawing a bone,when they
flung him one. like a mangy dog. At the Rue des Lions I lookedfor the stones
of the old menagerie where he once fed his pets. Hisonly diversion, poor dolt,
aside from those card games with his "low-borncompanion. " Odette de
Champdivers.
    It was a Sundayafternoon, much like this, when I first met Germaine. I
was strollingalong the Boulevard Beaumarchais, rich by a hundred francs or
so whichmy wife had frantically cabled from America. There was a touch of
springin the air. a poisonous, malefic spring that seemed to burst from
themanholes. Night after night I had been coming back to this
quarter,attracted by certain leprous streets which only revealed their
sinistersplendor when the light of day had oozed away and the whores
commencedto take up

    their posts.The Rue du Pasteur-Wagner is one I recall in particular,
corner of theRue Amelot which hides behind the boulevard like a slumbering
lizard.Here. at the neck of the bottle, so to speak, there was always a
clusterof vultures who croaked and flapped their dirty wings, who reached
outwith sharp talons and plucked you into a doorway. Jolly, rapacious
devilswho didn't even give you time to button your pants when it wasover.
Led you into a little room off the street, a room without a windowusually,
and, sitting on the edge of the bed with skirts tucked up gaveyou a quick
inspection. spat on your cock. and placed it for you. Whileyou washed
yourself another one stood at the door and, holding her victimby the hand,
watched nonchalantly as you gave the finishing touchesto your toilet.
    Germaine wasdifferent. There was nothing to tell me so from her
appearance. Nothingto distinguish her from the other trollops who met each
afternoon andevening at the Cafe de 'Elephant. As I say, it was a spring day
andthe few francs my wife had scraped up to cable me were jingling in
mypocket. had a sort of vague premonition that I would not reach the
Bastillewithout being taken in tow by one of these buzzards. Sauntering
alongthe boulevard I had noticed her verging toward me with that
curioustrot-about air of a whore and the run-down heels and cheap jewelry
andthe pasty look of their kind which the rouge only accentuates. It wasnot
difficult to come to terms with her. We sat in the back of the littletahac
called L'Elephant and talked it over quickly. In a fewminutes we were in a
five franc room on the Rue Amelot. the curtainsdrawn and the covers thrown
back. She didn't rush things. Germaine.She sat on the bidet soaping herself
and talked to me pleasantlyabout this and that; she liked the knickerbockers
I was wearing. Treschic! she thought. They were once. but I had worn the
seat out ofthem; fortunately the jacket covered my ass. As she stood up to
dryherself, still talking to me pleasantly, suddenly she dropped the toweland.
advancing toward me leisurely, she commenced rubbing her pussyaffectionately,
stroking it with her two hands, caressing it. pattingit. patting it. There
was something about her eloquence at that momentand the way she thrust that
rosebush under my nose which remains unforgettable; she spoke of it as if it
were some extraneous object which she had acquiredat great cost,

    an object whosevalue had increased with time and which now she prized
above everythingin the world. Her words imbued it with a peculiar fragrance;
it wasno longer just her private organ, but a treasure, a magic, potent
treasure,a God-given thing _ and none the less so because she traded it day
inand day out for a few pieces of silver. As she flung herself on thebed.
with legs spread wide a-part, she cupped it with her hands andstroked it
some more. murmuring all the while in that hoarse, crackedvoice of hers that
it was good, beautiful, a treasure, a little treasure.And it was good, that
little pussy of hers! That Sunday afternoon,with its poisonous breath of
spring in the air, everything clicked again.As we stepped out of the hotel I
looked her over again in the harshlight of day and I saw clearly what a
whore she was _ the gold teeth,the geranium in her hat, the rundown heels,
etc. . etc. Even the factthat she had wormed a dinner out of me and
cigarettes and taxi hadn'tthe least disturbing effect upon me. I encouraged
it, in fact. I likedher so well that after dinner we went back to the hotel
again and tookanother shot at it. "For love. " this time. And again that big,
bushything of hers worked its bloom and magic. It began to have an
independentexistence _ for me too. There was Germaine and there was that
rosebushof hers. I liked them separately and I liked them together.
    As I say, shewas different. Germaine. Later, when she discovered my true
circumstances,she treated me nobly _ blew me to drinks, gave me credit,
pawned mythings, introduced me to her friends, and so on. She even
apologizedfor not lending me money, which I understood quite well after her
maquereauhad been pointed out to me. Night after night I walked down the
BoulevardBeau-marchais to the little tahac where they all congregatedand I
waited for her to stroll in and give me a few minutes of her precioustime.
    When some timelater I came to write about Claude, it was not Claude that
I was thinkingof but Germaine. . . . "All the men she's been with and now you,
justyou. and barges going by. masts and hulls, the whole damned currentof
life flowing through you, through her, through all the guys behindyou and
after you. the flowers and the birds and the sun streaming inand the
fragrance of it choking you. annihilating you. " That was forGermaine!
Claude was not the same. though I admired her tremendously_ I even

    thought for awhile that I loved her. Claude had a soul and a conscience
i she hadrefinement, too, which is bad _ in a whore. Claude always imparted
afeeling of sadness; she left the impression, unwittingly, of course,that
you were just one more added to the stream which fate had ordainedto destroy
her. Unwittingly, I say, because Claude was the lastperson in the world who
would consciously create such an image in one'smind. She was too delicate,
too sensitive for that. At bottom, Claudewas just a good French girl of
average breed and intelligence whom lifehad tricked somehow; something in
her there was which was not toughenough to withstand the shock of daily
experience. For her were meantthose terrible words of Louis-Philippe, "and a
night comes when allis over, when so many jaws have closed upon us that we
no longer havethe strength to stand, and our meat hangs upon our bodies, as
thoughit had been masticated by every mouth. " Germaine, on the other
hand,was a whore from the cradle; she was thoroughly satisfied with her
role,enjoyed it in fact, except when her stomach pinched or her shoes gaveout,
little surface things of no account, nothing that ate into hersoul, nothing
that created torment. Ennui! That was the worstshe ever felt. Days there were,
no doubt, when she had a bellyful, aswe say _ but no more than that! Most of
the time she enjoyed it _ orgave the illusion of enjoying it. It made a
difference of course, whomshe went with _ or came with. But the principal
thing was aman. A man! That was what she craved. A man with something
betweenhis legs that could tickle her, that could make her writhe in
ecstasy,make her grab that bushy twat of hers with both hands and rub it
joyfully,boastfully, proudly, with a sense of connection, a sense of life.
Thatwas the only place where she experienced any life _ down there whereshe
clutched herself with both hands.
    Germaine wasa whore all the way through, even down to her good heart,
her whore'sheart which is not really a good heart but a lazy one, an
indifferent,flaccid heart that can be touched for a moment. a heart without
referenceto any fixed point within, a big, flaccid whore's heart that can
detachitself for a moment from its true center. However vile and
circumscribedwas that world which she had created for herself, nevertheless
she functionedin it superbly. And that in itself is a tonic thing. When,
after wehad be-

    come well acquainted,her companions would twit me, saying that I was in
love with Germaine(a situation almost inconceivable to them). I would say:
"Sure! Sure,I'm in love with her! And what's more. I'm going to be faithful
to her!" A lie. of course, because I could no more think of loving
Germainethan I could think of loving a spider; and if I was faithful,it was
not to Germaine but to that bushy thing she carried between herlegs.
Whenever I looked at another woman I thought immediately of Germaine,of that
flaming bush which she had left in my mind and which seemedimperishable. It
gave me pleasure to sit on the terrasse of thelittle tahac and observe her
as she plied her trade, observeher as she resorted to the same grimaces, the
same tricks, with othersas she had with me. "She's doing her job! " _ that's
how I felt aboutit, and it was with approbation that I regarded her
transactions. Later,when I had taken up with Claude, and I saw her night
after night sittingin her accustomed place, her round little buttocks
chubbily ensconcedin the plush settee, I felt a sort of inexpressible
rebellion towardher; a whore, it seemed to me, had no right to be sitting
there likea lady, waiting timidly for someone to approach and all the while
abstemiouslysipping her chocolat. Germaine was a hustler. She didn't waitfor
you to come to her _ she went out and grabbed you. I remember sowell the
holes in her stockings, and the torn ragged shoes; I remembertoo how she
stood at the bar and with blind, courageous defiance threwa strong drink
down her stomach and marched out again. A hustler! Perhapsit wasn't so
pleasant to smell that boozy breath of hers, that breathcompounded of weak
coffee, cognac, aferitifs. Pernods and allthe other stuff she guzzled
between times, what to warm herself andwhat to summon up strength and courage,
but the fire of it penetratedher, it glowed down there between her legs
where women ought to glow.and there was established that circuit which makes
one feel the earthunder his legs again. When she lay there with her legs
apart and moaning,even if she did moan that way for any and everybody, it
was good, itwas a proper show of feeling. She didn't stare up at the ceiling
witha vacant look or count the bedbugs on the wallpaper; she kept her mindon
her business, she talked about the things a man wants to hear whenhe's
climbing over a woman. Whereas Claude -- well, with Claude therewas always a
certain delicacy.

    even when shegot under the sheets with you. And her delicacy offended.
Who wantsa delicate whore! Claude would even ask you to turn your faceaway
when she squatted over the bidet. All wrong! A man, whenhe's burning up with
passion, wants to see things; he wants to see everything,even how they make
water. And while it's all very nice to know thata woman has a mind,
literature coming from the cold corpse of a whoreis the last thing to be
served in bed. Germaine had the right idea:she was ignorant and lusty, she
put her heart and soul into her work.She was a whore all the way through _
and that was her virtue!  E.
    ^aster came inlike a frozen hare _ but it was fairly warm in bed. Today
it is lovelyagain and along the Champs-Elysees at twilight it is like an
outdoorseraglio choked with dark-eyed houris. The trees are in full
foliageand of a verdure so pure, so rich. that it seems as though they
werestill wet and glistening with dew. From the Palais du Louvre to
theEtoile it is like a piece of music for the pianoforte. For five daysI
have not touched the typewriter nor looked at a book; nor have I hada single
idea in my head except to go to the American Express. At ninethis morning I
was there, just as the doors were being opened, and againat one o'clock. No
news. At four-thirty I dash out of the hotel, resolvedto make a lastminute
stab at it. Just as I turn the corner I brush againstWalter Pach. Since he
doesn't recognize me, and since I have nothingto say to him. I make no
attempt to arrest him. Later, when am stretchingmy legs in the Tuileries his
figure reverts to mind. He was a littlestooped, pensive, with a sort of
serene yet reserved smile on his face.I wonder, as I look up at this softly
enameled sky, so faintly tinted,which does not bulge today with heavy rain
clouds but smiles like apiece of old china, I wonder what goes on in the
mind of this man whotranslated the four thick volumes of the History of Art
whenhe takes in this blissful cosmos with his drooping eye.
    Along the Champs-Elysees,ideas pouring from me like sweat. I ought to be
rich enough to havea secretary to whom I could dictate as I walk. because my
best thoughtsalways come when I am away from the machine.
    Walking alongthe Champs-Elysees I keep thinking of my really superb
health. WhenI say "health" I mean optimism, to be truthful. Incurably
optimistic!Still have one foot in the nineteenth century. I'm a bit retarded,
likemost Americans. Carl finds it disgusting, this optimism. "I have onlyto
talk about a meal, " he say, "and you're radiant! " It's a fact.The mere
thought of a meal _ another meal _ rejuvenates me. Ameal! That means
something to go on a few solid hours of work, an erectionpossibly. I don't
de-