Page 115 - The Thief's Journal

The Thief's Journal
just because I happen to call it pitiful, symbolized me.
The second reason: I think that all is not lost for me since Stilitano thus admitted that he loved Roger, and
Roger, that he loved the other. They had recognized each other in shame.
If Lucien enters my room on tip−toe or if he comes rushing in, I always feel the same emotion. The imaginary tortures I invented for him cause me more acute pain than if he had suffered them. Am I to believe that my idea of him is dearer to me than the child who is its pretext and support? Nor can I bear to see his physical person in pain either. At times, in certain moments of tenderness, his gaze is slightly veiled; his lashes come together; a kind of mist clouds his eyes. His mouth then takes on a tender smile. The horror of this face, for it does fill me with horror, means a plunge into my love for the child. I drown in it as in water. I see myself drowning. Death thrusts me into it. When he is asleep, I must not gaze down on it too often; I would lose my strength. And the strength I draw from it is meant only to ruin me and save him. The love I bear him is composed of a thousand signs of a deep tenderness which comes from him, from the depths of his heart, signs which, seemingly sent out by chance, are caught only by me.
At times I say to myself that if we stole together he might love me more. He would accept his lover's caprices. “Anguish would shatter his shame,” I tell myself, “the crust of shame.”
I then reply to myself that his love, addressed to an equal, would have more violence; our tumultuous life would not make it stronger. In order to spare him any pain coming from me, I would rather kill him. Lucien, whom I have called elsewhere my ambassador on earth, binds me to mortals. My industry consists in serving—for him and by him— the order which denies the one to which I would devote all my care. I shall, however, strive to make of him a visible and moving masterpiece. The danger lies m the elements he offers me: naivete, insouciance, laziness, the artlessness of his mind, his human respect. So I shall have to make use of what I am unaccustomed to, but with it I want to achieve a happy solution.
Had he offered me the contrary qualities, I would have worked on them with the same zeal toward an opposite though equally uncommon solution.
I have said earlier that the only criterion of an act is its elegance. I am not contradicting myself in asserting my choice of betrayal. Betrayal may be a handsome and elegant gesture composed of nervous force and grace. I definitely reject the idea of a nobility which, in favor of a harmonious form, ignores a more hidden, almost invisible beauty which would have to be revealed elsewhere than in objectionable acts and things. No one will misconstrue me if I write: “Betrayal is beautiful,” or will be so cowardly as to think—to pretend to think—that I am talking about cases in which it is necessary and noble, when it makes for the realization of Good. I was talking of low betrayal. The kind that cannot be justified by any heroic excuse. The sneaky, cringing kind, caused by the least noble of sentiments: envy, hatred (though a certain ethics dares class hatred among the noble sentiments), greed. It is enough that the betrayer be aware of his betrayal, that he will it, that he be able to break the bonds of love uniting him with mankind. Indispensable for achieving beauty: love. And cruelty shattering it. If he has courage—please understand—the guilty man decides to be what crime has made him. Finding a justification is easy; otherwise, how would he live? He draws it from his pride. (Note the extraordinary power of verbal creation that comes from pride, as from anger.) He locks himself up in his shame out of pride, a word which designates the manifestation of the boldest freedom. Within his shame, in his own spittle, he envelops himself; he spins a silk which is his pride. This is not a natural garment. The guilty man has woven it to protect himself, woven it purple to embellish himself. No pride without guilt. If pride is the boldest freedom—Lucifer crossing swords with God—if pride is the wondrous cloak wherein my guilt, of which it is woven, stands erect, I want to be guilty. Guilt makes for singularity (destroys confusion),
The Thief's Journal 113