Page 105 - The Thief's Journal

The Thief's Journal
superiority over Armand. Yet I dared not beg him not to mention the matter. To show such moral elegance toward a crony would have revealed within me, in my heart, strange landscapes, so softly lighted that a flick of the thumb would have ruffled them. I pretended to be indifferent.
“You learn things every day,” said Stilitano. “There's nothing wrong with that.”
“That's what I say. You get along as best you can.”
No doubt, to reassure myself, to bolster my insecurity, I had to assume that my lovers were wrought of tough matter. Here was I learning that the one who impressed me most was composed of human woes. Today the memory which recurs to me most often is that of Armand, whom I never saw in that occupation, approaching tables in restaurants and cutting out—in Venetian point—his paper lace. Perhaps it was then that he discovered, without anyone's help, the elegance, not of what is called manners, but of the manifold play of attitudes. Whether out of laziness, or because he wanted to humble me, or because he felt a need for a ceremonial to enhance his person, he demanded that I light his cigarette in my mouth and then put it into his. I wasn't even supposed to wait for his desire to manifest itself, but to anticipate it. I did this in the beginning but, being a smoker myself, in order to do things more quickly and not make any waste motions, I put two cigarettes into my mouth, lit them, and handed one to Armand. He brutally forbade this procedure which he considered inelegant. As before, I had to take one cigarette from the pack, light it, put it into his mouth and then take another for myself.
Since going into mourning means first submitting to a sorrow from which I shall escape, for I transform it into the strength necessary to enable me to depart from conventional morality, I can not steal flowers and lay them on the grave of someone who was dear to me. Stealing determines a moral attitude which can not be achieved without effort; it is a heroic act. Sorrow at the loss of a beloved person reveals to us bonds with mankind. The survivor is required to observe, above all, a strict dignity. So much so that our concern about this dignity will make us steal flowers if we can not buy them. The following act was performed out of desperation at being unable to carry out the customary formality of farewell to the dead. Guy came to see me to tell me how Maurice B. had just been shot down.
“We need some wreaths.” “Why?”
“For the funeral.”
His speech was clipped. He was afraid that, if he lengthened the syllables, his whole soul might droop. And perhaps he thought it was not a time for tears or moans. What wreaths was he talking about, what funeral, what ceremony?
“The burial. We need flowers.”
“Do you have any dough?”
“Not a sou. We'll take up a collection.”
“Where?”
“Not in church, of course. Among our pals. In the bars.”
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