The thing that the man has just said moderately sparingly

Christophe was a little embarrassed about this kind of art, because he knew that infection itself; and without trying to return to the past, – (the impossible and unnatural desire), – he now purged his soul again in the spirit of the past Masters who had had the instinct and ability of the great collective art to screen and curb their thoughts. Such was, for example, Handel, who despised his time and racial devotion, and composed huge spiritual Anthems.and their oratorio, heroic epic, folk songs for their people. The hardest thing was to find such poetry texts as the composer’s inspiration, which might have aroused common feelings today for all the peoples of Europe, such as the Bible in Handel. The present Europe had no single book: no poetry, no prayer, no creed that would have been all. Oh, such a shame should weigh underground on all modern writers, artists and thinkers! Not only have you written, thought of everyone. Beethoven alone has left a few pages of new, comforting and fraternal gospel; but only musicians can read it, most people never hear it. However, Wagner has tried to build a religious art on the Bayreuth Hill, who would connect all people. But his great spirit was too far from simplicity and too full of all the decadent musical mistakes and thoughts of his time: not the fishermen of Galilee came to the holy hill but the Pharisees.

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He didn’t come for a long time

One evening Christophe heard by chance that he had been dangerously ill, that he hadn’t been playing for weeks, Christophe went to him even though Françoise had denied him.

He was not first received; but when he heard his name, he was shouted back from the steps. Françoise was on her own, she could be better, she had pneumonia, her appearance had changed a lot; but he still had an ironic smile and a sharp look that never softened. However, he seemed really pleased that Christophe came. He asked Christoph to sit by the bed. He spoke of himself lurking indifferently, and said he had died. That’s when Christophe was hugging. But Françoise Oudon drank her. Christophe blamed the actress for not telling him anything:

– Did you say anything? That you would come? Never!

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It is better not to take it

Christophe looked at him: and his mind was due to his former random friend, a selfish and immoral grisett, who was incapable of any kind of real emotion, but when he saw suffering, he accelerated as a mother cherishing something yesterday or an unknown person to him. Even the most disgusting tasks at that time did not scare him: on the contrary, he seemed to feel strange pleasure in submitting to the chores that demand the greatest refusal. It was just a matter of informing him: he seemed to have found in it an action for all the need for ideality, that is, without expressing his expression in him; his soul was, for the rest of the time, completely exhausted in his life, but in these few seasons he breathed and lived; in relieving his neighbor’s suffering, he felt well-being, laughing internally; his joy was almost inappropriate to such an opportunity. – Both goodness in this girl who was selfish, that egoism in Jacqueline, which was good, was neither bad nor good; they were just a breakdown required by health. But the first of them can be better after its health care.

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The selfishness of their love had destroyed everything else around them

It was the dreary fuss of the beginning; in its power, the entangled beings only think about how to swallow one another… Each cell of their body and soul touches each other, enjoy each other, try to penetrate each other. The two are a whole universe with no laws, chaos, which is just love and where the mixed elements do not yet know where they differ from each other, but try to gloat each other out. All the other qualities charm another: the other is still another. What do they have to do with the world? Like the ancient Androgyne, who slept in the dream of a harmonious hood, their eyes are closed from the world, the whole world is in them…

Oh, you days and nights that are the only tissue of the dreams, the hours that you go away like the beautiful, white clouds in the sky, and nothing more than the bright old glare of the eye, the warm breath that surrounds the man with the springy, sweet rage, the golden golden body glow, sun-drenched vine, pure shamelessness, embrace, insanity, sighs, happy laughter, happy tears, – oh, what’s left of you, then the dust of happiness? Hardly the heart can no longer remember you: for when you were, there was no time.

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The train took them to the darkness

Christophe and Mr. Langeais returned from the station. Christophe said biting playfully and naively:

– Now we’re both widowed!

Mr Langeais burst out laughing. He liked much about Christoph, which he had now learned. They uttered goodbye to each other, and each went on their own. They both suffer pain; but the sadness and the sweetness were mixed with it. And alone in his room thought Christophe:

However, my best soul is now happy.

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