I live in a corner of the highest story of a square and spacious building. I have placed my bed in the embrasure of the window; and when the evening, like the bride of a god, silently mounts her couch, I lie at full length with my face turned toward the night. From time to time, lifting an eyelid heavy as if in death, my sight has swum in a rose-colored glow. But at this hour, emerging with a long sigh from a sleep as heavy as Adam’s, I awaken to a vision of gold. The light tissue of the mosquito netting waves under an ineffable breeze. Here is light purged of heat; and I twist slowly in the delicious coolness. If I put out my bare arm, it seems to me fitting to plunge it to the shoulder in the consistency of this glory, to sink my hand searchingly into the fountain of eternity, as tremulous as its source. I see the magnificent lake of light spread with an irresistible intensity in a sky that is like a concave and liquid basin the color of mulberry leaves. Only the face of the sun, and its insupportable fires, only the mortal thrust of its rays, can drive me from my bed. I foresee that I shall have to pass the day in fasting and detachment. What water will be pure enough to quench my thirst, to satisfy my heart? From what manner of fruit shall I strip the skin with a golden knife? But when the sun has reached the zenith, followed by the sea as is a shepherd, and by the races of mankind arising in successive multitudes,--it is noon, and everything that occupies a dimension in space is enveloped by the soul of a fire whiter than lightning. The world is effaced and the seals of the furnace broken; all things have vanished in the heart of this new deluge. I have closed all the windows. Prisoner of the light, I take up the journal of my captivity. And now, with my hand on the paper, I write by the same impulse that moves the silkworm, who spins its thread of the leaf that it devours. Sometimes I stroll through the darkened room, through the dining-room or the parlor; or for a moment I rest my hand on the cover of the organ, in this bare space whose center the work-table fills, standing intrepid and alone. Surrounded by these white streaks that mark the fissures in my prison, I develop the thought of holocaust. Ah, if it is enviable to dissolve in a flaming embrace, swept away upon a whirlwind with vehement breath,--how much more beautiful the torture of a spirit devoured by light! And, when the afternoon is filled with this burning softness, by which the evening is preceded, like the sentiment of paternal love; having purified my body and my mind, I remount to the highest room. Seizing an inexhaustible book, I pursue there the study of Being, the definition of person and substance, of qualities and possibilities.