Read Online The Age of Reason by Jean-Paul Sartre - Free Book Online
Authors: Jean-Paul Sartre
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Sarah.
Her eyes were shining, as though a burden had been lifted from her.
‘And don’t leave anything lying about. Burn everything,’ Brunet added.
‘I promise’
Brunet turned to Mathieu: ‘Well, good-bye, my dear fellow’. He did not hold out a hand, he eyed him narrowly, with a hard expression, like Marcelle’s last evening, and with the same remorseless astonishment. He felt naked beneath that scrutiny, a tall and naked figure, moulded out of dough. Clumsy, too. Who was he to give advice? He blinked: Brunet looked hard and knotty. And I bear my futility written on my face. Brunet spoke: not at all in the voice that Mathieu expected.
‘You’re looking pretty rotten,’ he said gently. ‘What’s the matter?’
Mathieu had got up also: ‘I’m... rather worried. Nothing serious.’
Brunet laid a hand on his shoulder, and looked at him doubtfully.
‘It’s idiotic. I’m on the go all the time and everywhere, and never have a moment for my old friends. If you die, I should only hear of your death a month afterwards, and by accident.’
‘I’m not going to die yet awhile,’ said Mathieu with a laugh.
He felt Brunet’s fist on his shoulder: he thought: ‘He’s not judging me,’ and was filled with a sense of humble gratitude.
Brunet remained serious. ‘No,’ said he, ‘not yet awhile. But...’ He seemed to make up his mind at last. ‘Are you free about two o’clock? I’ve got a few minutes, I would look in on you and we might have a little talk, like old times.’
‘Like old times; I’m quite free, I shall expect you,’ said Mathieu.
Brunet smiled genially. He had kept his frank and vivid smile. He swung round and walked towards the staircase.
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Sarah.
Mathieu followed them with his eyes. Brunet ran up the stairs with surprising agility. ‘All is not lost,’ he said to himself. And something stirred inside his chest, something warm and homely, something that suggested hope. He stepped forward. The door slammed above his head. Little Pablo was eyeing him gravely. Mathieu picked up an etching-needle from the table. A fly which had alighted on the copperplate flew away. Pablo was still looking at him. Mathieu felt uneasy, without quite knowing why. He had the sense of being engulfed by the child’s eyes. ‘Children are greedy little devils,’ he thought, ‘all their senses are mouths.’ Pablo’s expression was not yet human, and yet it was already more than alive: the little creature had not long emerged from a womb, as indeed was plain: there he was, hesitant, minute, still displaying the unwholesome sheen of vomit: but behind the flickering humours that filled his eye-sockets, lurked a greedy little consciousness. Mathieu toyed with the etching-needle. ‘How hot it is today,’ he thought. The fly buzzed round him: in a pink room, within a female body, there was a blister, growing slowly larger.
‘Do you know what I dreamt?’ asked Pablo.
‘Tell me.’
‘I dreamt I was a feather.’
‘And what did you do when you were a feather?’
‘Nothing. I slept.’
Mathieu flung the etching-needle back on to the table: the frightened fly buzzed round and round and then alighted on the copperplate between two tiny grooves representing a woman’s arm. There was no time to lose, for the blister was expanding, at that very moment: it was making obscure efforts to emerge, to extricate itself from darkness, and growing into something like that , a little pallid, flabby object that clung to the world and sucked its sap.
Mathieu took a few steps towards the staircase. He could hear Sarah’s voice. She had opened the street door, and was standing on the threshold, smiling at Brunet. What was she waiting for? Why didn’t she come down again? He half turned, he looked at the child and he looked at the fly. A child. A bit of thinking flesh that screams and bleeds when it is killed. A fly is easier to kill than a child. He shrugged his shoulders.
Her eyes were shining, as though a burden had been lifted from her.
‘And don’t leave anything lying about. Burn everything,’ Brunet added.
‘I promise’
Brunet turned to Mathieu: ‘Well, good-bye, my dear fellow’. He did not hold out a hand, he eyed him narrowly, with a hard expression, like Marcelle’s last evening, and with the same remorseless astonishment. He felt naked beneath that scrutiny, a tall and naked figure, moulded out of dough. Clumsy, too. Who was he to give advice? He blinked: Brunet looked hard and knotty. And I bear my futility written on my face. Brunet spoke: not at all in the voice that Mathieu expected.
‘You’re looking pretty rotten,’ he said gently. ‘What’s the matter?’
Mathieu had got up also: ‘I’m... rather worried. Nothing serious.’
Brunet laid a hand on his shoulder, and looked at him doubtfully.
‘It’s idiotic. I’m on the go all the time and everywhere, and never have a moment for my old friends. If you die, I should only hear of your death a month afterwards, and by accident.’
‘I’m not going to die yet awhile,’ said Mathieu with a laugh.
He felt Brunet’s fist on his shoulder: he thought: ‘He’s not judging me,’ and was filled with a sense of humble gratitude.
Brunet remained serious. ‘No,’ said he, ‘not yet awhile. But...’ He seemed to make up his mind at last. ‘Are you free about two o’clock? I’ve got a few minutes, I would look in on you and we might have a little talk, like old times.’
‘Like old times; I’m quite free, I shall expect you,’ said Mathieu.
Brunet smiled genially. He had kept his frank and vivid smile. He swung round and walked towards the staircase.
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Sarah.
Mathieu followed them with his eyes. Brunet ran up the stairs with surprising agility. ‘All is not lost,’ he said to himself. And something stirred inside his chest, something warm and homely, something that suggested hope. He stepped forward. The door slammed above his head. Little Pablo was eyeing him gravely. Mathieu picked up an etching-needle from the table. A fly which had alighted on the copperplate flew away. Pablo was still looking at him. Mathieu felt uneasy, without quite knowing why. He had the sense of being engulfed by the child’s eyes. ‘Children are greedy little devils,’ he thought, ‘all their senses are mouths.’ Pablo’s expression was not yet human, and yet it was already more than alive: the little creature had not long emerged from a womb, as indeed was plain: there he was, hesitant, minute, still displaying the unwholesome sheen of vomit: but behind the flickering humours that filled his eye-sockets, lurked a greedy little consciousness. Mathieu toyed with the etching-needle. ‘How hot it is today,’ he thought. The fly buzzed round him: in a pink room, within a female body, there was a blister, growing slowly larger.
‘Do you know what I dreamt?’ asked Pablo.
‘Tell me.’
‘I dreamt I was a feather.’
‘And what did you do when you were a feather?’
‘Nothing. I slept.’
Mathieu flung the etching-needle back on to the table: the frightened fly buzzed round and round and then alighted on the copperplate between two tiny grooves representing a woman’s arm. There was no time to lose, for the blister was expanding, at that very moment: it was making obscure efforts to emerge, to extricate itself from darkness, and growing into something like that , a little pallid, flabby object that clung to the world and sucked its sap.
Mathieu took a few steps towards the staircase. He could hear Sarah’s voice. She had opened the street door, and was standing on the threshold, smiling at Brunet. What was she waiting for? Why didn’t she come down again? He half turned, he looked at the child and he looked at the fly. A child. A bit of thinking flesh that screams and bleeds when it is killed. A fly is easier to kill than a child. He shrugged his shoulders.
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