in a little,old-world courtyard, a very smelly, very dreary courtyard.
Through thecracks in the shutters strange figures peer out at me. . . old
womenwith shawls, dwarfs, rat-faced pimps, bent Jews, midinettes,bearded
idots. They totter out into the courtyard to draw water or torinse the slop
pails. One day Eugene asked me if I would empty the pailfor him. I took it
to the corner of the yard. There was a hole in theground and some dirty
paper lying around the hole. The little well wasslimy with excrement, which
in English is shit. I tipped thepail and there was a foul, gurgling splash
followed by another and unexpectedsplash. When I returned the soup was
dished out. All through the mealI thought of my toothbrush _ it is getting
old and the bristles getcaught in my teeth.
    When I sit downto eat I always sit near the window. I am afraid to sit
on the otherside of the table _ it is too close to the bed and the bed is
crawling.I can see bloodstains on the gray sheets if I look that way. but I
trynot to look that way. I look out on the courtyard where they are
rinsingthe slop pails.
    The meal is nevercomplete without music. As soon as the cheese is passed
around Eugenejumps up and reaches for the guitar which hangs over the bed.
It isalways the same song. He says he has fifteen or sixteen songs in
hisrepertoire, but I have never heard more than three. His favorite
isCharmartt pceme d'amour. It is full of angoisse and tristesse.
    In the afternoonwe go to the cinema which is cool and dark. Eugene sits
at the pianoin the big pit and I sit on a bench up front. The house is empty,
butEugene sings as if he had for audience all the crowned heads of
Europe.The garden door is open and the odor of wet leaves sops in and the
rainblends with Eugene's angoisse and tristesse. At midnight,after the
spectators have saturated the hall with perspiration and foulbreaths, I
return to sleep on a bench. The exit light, swimming in ahalo of tobacco
smoke, sheds a faint light on the lower corner of theasbestos curtain; I
close my eyes every night on an artificial eye.. . .
    Standing in thecourtyard with a glass eye; only half the world is
intelligible. Thestones are wet and mossy and in the crevices are black toads.
A bigdoor bars the entrance to the cellar; the steps are slippery and
soiledwith bat dung. The door bulges and sags, the hingesare falling off,
but there is an enameled sign on it. in perfect condition,which says: "Be
sure to close the door. " Why close the door? I can'tmake it out. I look
again at the sign but it is removed;
    in its placethere is a pane of colored glass. I take out my artificial
eye. spiton it and polish it with my handkerchief. A woman is sitting on a
daisabove an immense carven desk; she has a snake around her neck. The
entireroom is lined with books and strange fish swimming in colored globes;
there are maps and charts on the wall. maps of Paris before the plague,maps
of the antique world, of Knossos and Carthage, of Carthage beforeand after
the salting. In the corner of the room I see an iron bedsteadand on it a
corpse is lying; the woman gets up wearily, removes thecorpse from the bed
and absent-mindedly throws it out the window. Shereturns to the huge carven
desk, takes a goldfish from the bowl andswallows it. Slowly the room begins
to revolve and one by one the continentsslide into the sea; only the woman
is left. but her body is a mass ofgeography. I lean out the window and the
Eiffel Tower is fizzing champagne; it is built entirely of numbers and
shrouded in black lace. The sewersare gurgling furiously. There are nothing
but roofs everywhere, laidout with execrable geometric cunning.
    I have been ejectedfrom the world like a cartridge. A deep fog has
settled down, the earthis smeared with frozen grease. I can feel the city
palpitating, as ifit were a heart just removed from a warm body. The windows
of my hotelare festering and there is a thick, acrid stench as of chemicals
burning.Looking into the Seine I see mud and desolation, street lamps
drowning,men and women choking to death, the bridges covered with houses,
slaughterhousesof love. A man is standing against a wall with an accordion
strappedto his belly; his hands are cut off at the wrists, but the
accordionwrithes between his stumps like a sack of snakes. The universe has
dwindled; it is only a block long and there are no stars, no trees, no
rivers.The people who live here are dead; they make chairs which other
peoplesit on in their dreams. In the middle of the street is a wheel and
inthe hub of the wheel a gallows is fixed. People already dead are
tryingfrantically to mount the gallows, but the wheel is turning too fast.. .
.

    I discovered it: Papini.It doesn't matter to me whether he's a chauvinist,
a little Christer,or a nearsighted pedant. As a failure he's marvelous. . . .
    The books heread _ at eighteen! Not only Homer, Dante, Goethe, not only
Aristotle,Plato. Epictetus, not only Rabelais, Cervantes. Swift, not only
WaltWhitman, Edgar Allan Poe, Baudelaire, Villon, Carducci, Manzoni, Lopede
Vega, not only Nietzsche, Schopenhauer. Kant, Hegel, Darwin, Spencer,Huxley
_ not only these but all the small fry in between. This on page. Alms, on
page he breaks down and confesses. I know nothing,he admits. I know the
titles, I have compiled bibliographies, I havewritten critical essays, I
have maligned and defamed. ... I can talkfor five minutes or for five days,
but then I give out, I am squeezeddry.
    Follows this:"Everybody wants to see me. Everybody insists on talking to
me. Peoplepester me and they pester others with inquiries about what I am
doing.How am I? Am I quite well again? Do I still go for my walks in the
country?Am I working? Have I finished my book? Will I begin another soon?
    "A skinny monkeyof a German wants me to translate his works. A wild-eyed
Russian girlwants me to write an account of my life for her. An American
lady wantsthe very latest news about me. An American gentleman will sendhis
carriage to take me to dinner _ just an intimate, confidential talk,you know.
An old schoolmate and chum of mine, of ten years ago, wantsme to read him
all that I write as fast as I write it. A painter friendI know expects me to
pose for him by the hour. A newspaperman wantsmy present address. An
acquaintance, a mystic, inquires about the stateof my soul; another, more
practical, about the state of my pocketbook.The president of my club wonders
if I will make a speech for the boys!A lady. spiritually inclined, hopes I
will come to her house for teaas often as possible. She wants to have my
opinion of Jesus Christ,and _ what do I think of that new medium?. . .
    "Great God! whathave I turned into? What right have you people to
clutter up my life,steal my time, probe my soul, suckle my thoughts, have me
for your companion,confidant, and information bureau? What do you take me for?
Am I anentertainer on

    salary, requiredevery evening to play an intellectual farce under your
stupid noses?Am I a slave, bought and paid for, to crawl on my belly in
front ofyou idlers and lay at your feet all that I do and all that I
know'?Am I a wench in a brothel who is called upon to lift her skirts or
takeoff her chemise at the bidding of the first man in a tailored suit
whocomes along?
    "I am a man whowould live an heroic life and make the world more
endurable in his ownsight. If. in some moment of weakness, of relaxation, of
need, I blowoff steam _ a bit of red-hot rage cooled off in words _ a
passionatedream, wrapped and tied in imagery _ well, take it or leave it. .
.but don't bother me!
    "I am a freeman _ and I need my freedom. I need to be alone. I need to
ponder myshame and my despair in seclusion; I need the sunshine and the
pavingstones of the streets without companions. without conversation, faceto
face with myself, with only the music of my heart for company. Whatdo you
want of me? When I have something to say. I put it in print.When I have
something to give, I give it. Your prying curiosity turnsmy stomach! Your
compliments humiliate me! Your tea poisons me! I owenothing to any one. I
would be responsible to God alone _ if He existed!"
    It seems to methat Papini misses something by a hair's breadth when he
talks of theneed to be alone. It is not difficult to be alone if you are
poor anda failure. An artist is always alone _ if he is an artist. No.what
the artist needs is loneliness.
    The artist, Icall myself. So be it. A beautiful nap this afternoon that
put velvetbetween my vertebrae. Generated enough ideas to last me three
days.Chock-full of energy and nothing to do about it. Decide to go for awalk.
In the street I change my mind. Decide to go to the movies. Can'tgo to the
movies _ short a few sous. A walk then. At every movie houseI stop and look
at the billboards, then at the price list. Cheap enough,these opium joints,
but I'm short just a few sous. If it weren't solate I might go back and cash
an empty bottle.
    By the time Iget to the Rue Amelie I've forgotten all about the movies.
The Rue Amelieis one of my favorite streets. It is one of those streets
which by goodfortune the municipality has forgotten to pave. Huge
cobblestones spreadingconvexly from one side of the

    street to theother. Only one block long and narrow. The Hotel Pretty is
on this street.There is a little church, too, on the Rue Amelie. It looks as
thoughit were made especially for the President of the Republic and his
privatefamily. It's good occasionally to see a modest little church. Parisis
full of pompous cathedrals.
    Font AlexandreIII. A great windswept space approaching the bridge. Gaunt,
bare treesmathematically fixed in their iron grates;
    the gloom ofthe Invalides welling out of the dome and overflowing the
dark streetsadjacent to the Square. The morgue of poetry. They have him
where theywant him now, the great warrior, the last big man of Europe. He
sleepssoundly in his granite bed. No fear of him turning over in his
grave.The doors are well bolted, the lid is on tight. Sleep, Napoleon! Itwas
not your ideas they wanted, it was only your corpse!
    The river isstill swollen, muddy, streaked with lights. I don't know
what it isrushes up in me at the sight of this dark, swift-moving current,
buta great exultation lifts me up, affirms the deep wish that is in menever
to leave this land. I remember passing this way the other morningon my way
to the American Express, knowing in advance that there wouldbe no mail for me,
no check, no cable, nothing, nothing. A wagon fromthe Galeries Lafayette was
rumbling over the bridge. The rain had stoppedand the sun breaking through
the soapy clouds touched the glisteningrubble of roofs with a cold fire. I
recall now how the driver leanedout and looked up the river toward Passy way.
Such a healthy, simple,approving glance, as if he were saying to himself: "Ah,
spring is coming!"And God knows, when spring comes to Paris the humblest
mortal alivemust feel that he dwells in paradise. But it was not only this _
itwas the intimacy with which his eye rested upon the scene. It was hisParis.
A man does not need to be rich, nor even a citizen, to feel thisway about
Paris. Paris is filled with poor people _ the proudest andfilthiest lot of
beggars that ever walked the earth, it seems to me.And yet they give the
illusion of being at home. It is that which distinguishesthe Parisian from
all other metropolitan souls.
    When I thinkof New York I have a very different feeling. New York makes
even a richman feel his unimportance. New York is cold, glittering, malign.
Thebuildings dominate. There is a sort

    of atomic frenzyto the activity going on j the more furious the pace.
the more diminishedthe spirit. A constant ferment, but it might just as well
be going onin a test tube. Nobody knows what it's all about. Nobody directs
theenergy. Stupendous. Bizarre. Baffling. A tremendous reactive urge,
butabsolutely uncoordinated.
    When I thinkof this city where I was born and raised, this Manhattan
that Whitmansang of, a blind, white rage licks my guts. New York! The white
prisons,the sidewalks swarming with maggots, the breadlines, the opium
jointsthat are built like palaces, the kikes that are there, the lepers,
thethugs, and above all, the ennui, the monotony of faces, streets,legs.
houses, skyscrapers, meals, posters, jobs, crimes, loves. ...A whole city
erected over a hollow pit of nothingness. Meaningless.Absolutely meaningless.
And Forty-second Street! The top of the world,they call it. Where's the
bottom then? You can walk along with yourhands out and theyll put cinders in
your cap. Rich or poor, they walkalong with head thrown back and they almost
break their necks lookingup at their beautiful white prisons. They walk
along like blind geeseand the searchlights spray their empty faces with
flecks of ecstasy.  L,
    ^ife, " saidEmerson, "consists in what a man is thinking all day. " If
that be so.then my life is nothing but a big intestine. I not only think
aboutfood all day, but I dream about it at night.
    But I don't askto go back to America, to be put in double harness again,
to work thetreadmill. No, I prefer to be a poor man of Europe. God knows. I
ampoor enough; it only remains to be a man. Last week I thought the
problemof living was about to be solved, thought I was on the way to
becomingself-supporting. It happened that I ran across another Russian _
Sergeis his name. He lives in Suresnes where there is a little colony
ofemigres and run-down artists. Before the revolution Serge wasa captain in
the Imperial Guard; he stands six foot three in his stockingedfeet and
drinks vodka like a fish. His father was an admiral, or somethinglike that,
on the battleship "Potemkin. "
    I met Serge underrather peculiar circumstances. Sniffing about for food
I found myselftoward noon the other day in the neighborhood of the
Folies-Bergere_ the back entrance, that is to say, in the narrow little lane
withan iron gate at one end. I was dawdling about the stage entrance,
hopingvaguely for a casual brush with one of the butterflies, when an
opentruck pulls up to the sidewalk. Seeing me standing there with my handsin
my pockets the driver. who was Serge, asks me if I would give hima hand
unloading the iron barrels. When he learns that I am an Americanand that I'm
broke he almost weeps with joy. He has been looking highand low for an
English teacher, it seems. I help him roll the barrelsof insecticide inside
and I look my fill at the butterflies flutteringabout the wings. The
incident takes on strange proportions to me _ theempty house, the sawdust
dolls bouncing in the wings, the barrels ofgermicide, the battleship
"Potemkin" _ above all. Serge's gentleness.He is big and tender, a man every
inch of him. but with a woman's heart.
    In the cafe nearby_ Cafe des Artistes _ he proposes immediately to put
me up; says hewill put a mattress on the floor in the hallway.For the
lessons he says he will give me a meal every day, a big Russianmeal. or if
for any reason the meal is lacking then five francs. Itsounds wonderful to
me _ wonderful. The only question is, howwill I get from Suresnes to the
American Express every day?
    Serge insiststhat we begin at once _ he gives me the carfare to get out
to Suresnesin the evening. I arrive a little before dinner, with my knapsack,
inorder to give Serge a lesson. There are some guests on hand already_ seems
as though they always eat in a crowd, everybody chipping in.
    There are eightof us at the table _ and three dogs. The dogs eat first.
They eat oatmeal.Then we commence. We eat oatmeal too _ as an hors d'oeuvre.
"Cheznous, " says Serge, with a twinkle in his eye. "c'est pour leschiens.
les Quaker Oats. Id pour Ie gentleman. Qa va. " After theoatmeal, mushroom
soup and vegetables;
    after that baconomelet, fruit, red wine, vodka, coffee, cigarettes. Not
bad, the Russianmeal. Everyone talks with his mouth full. Toward the end of
the mealSerge's wife, who is a lazy slut of an Armenian, flops on the
couchand begins to nibble bonbons. She fishes around in the box with herfat
fingers, nibbles a tiny piece to see if there is any juice inside,and then
throws it on the floor for the dogs.
    The meal over,the guests rush away. They rush away precipitously, as if
they feareda plague. Serge and I are left with the dogs _ his wife has
fallen asleepon the couch. Serge moves about unconcernedly, scraping the
garbagefor the dogs. "Dogs like very much, " he says. "Very good for
dogs.Little dog he has worms. . . he is too young yet. " He bends down
toexamine some white worms lying on the carpet between the dog's paws.Tries
to explain about the worms in English, but his vocabulary is lacking.Finally
he consults the dictionary. "Ah, " he says, looking at me
exultantly,"tapeworms' " My response is evidently not very intelligent.Serge
is confused. He gets down on his hands and knees to examine thembetter. He
picks one up and lays it on the table beside the fruit. "Huh,him not very
beeg. " he grunts. "Next lesson you learn me worms, no?You are gude teacher.
I make progress with you. ..."
    Lying on themattress in the hallway the odor of the germicide stifles me.
A pungent,acrid odor that seems to invade every pore of mybody. The food
begins to repeat on me _ the Quaker Oats, the mushrooms,the bacon, the fried
apples. I see the little tapeworm lying besidethe fruit and all the
varieties of worms that Serge drew on the tableclothto explain what was the
matter with the dog. I see the empty pit ofthe Folies-Bergere and in every
crevice there are cockroaches and liceand bedbugs; I see people scratching
themselves frantically, scratchingand scratching until the blood comes. I
see the worms crawling overthe scenery like an army of red ants, devouring
everything in sight.I see the chorus girls throwing away their gauze tunics
and runningthrough the aisles naked; I see the spectators in the pit
throwing offtheir clothes also and scratching each other like monkeys.
    I try to quietmyself. After all, this is a home I've found, and there's
a meal waitingfor me every day. And Serge is a brick, there's no doubt about
that.But I can't sleep. It's like going to sleep in a morgue. The mattressis
saturated with embalming fluid. It's a morgue for lice, bedbugs,cockroaches,
tapeworms. I can't stand it. I won't stand it! Afterall I'm a man, not a
louse.
    In the morningI wait for Serge to load the truck. I ask him to take me
in to Paris.I haven't the heart to tell him I'm leaving. I leave the
knapsack behind,with the few things that were left me. When we get to the
Place PereireI jump out. No particular reason for getting off here. No
particularreason for anything. I'm free _ that's the main thing. . . .
    Light as a birdI flit about from one quarter to another. It's as though
I had beenreleased from prison. I look at the world with new eyes.
Everythinginterests me profoundly. Even trifles. On the Rue du Faubourg
PoissonniereI stop before the window of a physical culture establishment.
Thereare photographs showing specimens of manhood "before and after. "
Allfrogs. Some of them are nude, except for a pince-nez or a beard.
Can'tunderstand how these birds fall for parallel bars and dumbbells. A
frogshould have just a wee bit of a paunch, like the Baron de Charlus.
Heshould wear a beard and a pince-nez, but he should never be photographedin
the nude. He should wear twinkling patent-leather boots and in thebreast
pocket of his sack coat there should be a white handkerchiefprotruding about
three-quarters of an inch above the vent. If possible,he should have a red
ribbon in his lapel, through the but-  tonhole. He should wear pajamason
going to bed.
    Approaching thePlace Clichy toward evening I pass the little whore with
the woodenstump who stands opposite the Gaumont Palace day in and day out.
Shedoesn't look a day over eighteen. Has her regular customers, I
suppose.After midnight she stands there in her black rig rooted to the
spot.Back of her is the little alleyway that blazes like an inferno.
Passingher now with a light heart she reminds me somehow of a goose tied toa
stake, a goose with a diseased liver, so that the world may have itspale de
foie gras. Must be strange taking that wooden stump tobed with you. One
imagines all sorts of things _ splinters, etc. However,every man to his taste!
    Going down theRue des Dames I bump into Peckover. another poor devil who
works onthe paper. He complains of getting only three or four hours' sleep
anight _ has to get up at eight in the morning to work at a dentist'soffice.
It isn't for the money he's doing it. so he explains _ it'sfor to buy
himself a set of false teeth. "It's hard to read proof whenyou're dropping
with sleep, " he says. "The wife, she thinks I've gota cinch of it. What
would we do if you lost your job? she says. " ButPeckover doesn't give a
damn about the job; it doesn't even allow himspending money. He has to save
his cigarette butts and use them forpipe tobacco. His coat is held together
with pins. He has halitosisand his hands sweat. And only three hours' sleep
a night. "It's no wayto treat a man, " he says. "And that boss of mine, he
bawls the pissout of me if I miss a semicolon. " Speaking of his wife he adds:
"Thatwoman of mine, she's got no fucking gratitude, I tell you! "
    In parting Imanage to worm a franc fifty out of him. I try to squeeze
another fiftycentimes out of him but it's impossible. Anyway I've got enough
fora coffee and croissants. Near the Gare St. Lazare there's a barwith
reduced prices.
    As luck wouldhave it I find a ticket in the lavabo for a concert. Light
asa feather now I go there to the Salle Gaveau. The usher looks
ravagedbecause I overlook giving him his little tip. Every time he passes
mehe looks at me inquiringly, as if perhaps I will suddenly remember.
    It's so longsince I've sat in the company of welldressed people that I
feel a bitpanic-stricken. I can still smell the formaldehyde.