No More Learning

INTOXICATION.


One must be for ever drunken: that is the sole question of importance.
If you would not feel the horrible burden of Time that bruises your
shoulders and bends you to the earth, you must be drunken without cease.
But how? With wine, with poetry, with virtue, with what you please. But
be drunken. And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace, on the green
grass by a moat, or in the dull loneliness of your chamber, you should
waken up, your intoxication already lessened or gone, ask of the wind,
of the wave, of the star, of the bird, of the timepiece; ask of all that
flees, all that sighs, all that revolves, all that sings, all that
speaks, ask of these the hour; and wind and wave and star and bird and
timepiece will answer you: "It is the hour to be drunken! Lest you be
the martyred slaves of Time, intoxicate yourselves, be drunken without
cease! With wine, with poetry, with virtue, or with what you will. "




THE GIFTS OF THE MOON.


The Moon, who is caprice itself, looked in at the window as you slept in
your cradle, and said to herself: "I am well pleased with this child. "

And she softly descended her stairway of clouds and passed through the
window-pane without noise. She bent over you with the supple tenderness
of a mother and laid her colours upon your face. Therefrom your eyes
have remained green and your cheeks extraordinarily pale. From
contemplation of your visitor your eyes are so strangely wide; and she
so tenderly wounded you upon the breast that you have ever kept a
certain readiness to tears.
In the amplitude of her joy, the Moon filled all your chamber as with a
phosphorescent air, a luminous poison; and all this living radiance
thought and said: "You shall be for ever under the influence of my kiss.
You shall love all that loves me and that I love: clouds, and silence,
and night; the vast green sea; the unformed and multitudinous waters;
the place where you are not; the lover you will never know; monstrous
flowers, and perfumes that bring madness; cats that stretch themselves
swooning upon the piano and lament with the sweet, hoarse voices of
women.

"And you shall be loved of my lovers, courted of my courtesans. You
shall be the Queen of men with green eyes, whose breasts also I have
wounded in my nocturnal caress: men that love the sea, the immense green
ungovernable sea; the unformed and multitudinous waters; the place where
they are not; the woman they will never know; sinister flowers that seem
to bear the incense of some unknown religion; perfumes that trouble the
will; and all savage and voluptuous animals, images of their own folly. "

And that is why I am couched at your feet, O spoiled child, beloved and
accursed, seeking in all your being the reflection of that august
divinity, that prophetic godmother, that poisonous nurse of all
_lunatics_.




THE INVITATION TO THE VOYAGE.


It is a superb land, a country of Cockaigne, as they say, that I dream
of visiting with an old friend. A strange land, drowned in our northern
fogs, that one might call the East of the West, the China of Europe; a
land patiently and luxuriously decorated with the wise, delicate
vegetations of a warm and capricious phantasy.

A true land of Cockaigne, where all is beautiful, rich, tranquil, and
honest; where luxury is pleased to mirror itself in order; where life is
opulent, and sweet to breathe; from whence disorder, turbulence, and the
unforeseen are excluded; where happiness is married to silence; where
even the food is poetic, rich and exciting at the same time; where all
things, my beloved, are like you.

Do you know that feverish malady that seizes hold of us in our cold
miseries; that nostalgia of a land unknown; that anguish of curiosity?
It is a land which resembles you, where all is beautiful, rich, tranquil
and honest, where phantasy has built and decorated an occidental China,
where life is sweet to breathe, and happiness married to silence. It is
there that one would live; there that one would die.

Yes, it is there that one must go to breathe, to dream, and to lengthen
one's hours by an infinity of sensations. A musician has written the
"Invitation to the Waltz"; where is he who will write the "Invitation to
the Voyage," that one may offer it to his beloved, to the sister of his
election?

Yes, it is in this atmosphere that it would be good to live,--yonder,
where slower hours contain more thoughts, where the clocks strike the
hours of happiness with a more profound and significant solemnity.

Upon the shining panels, or upon skins gilded with a sombre opulence,
beatified paintings have a discreet life, as calm and profound as the
souls of the artists who created them.