to draw the blood from my head. I carry no notebook with me-purposely. If the dictation starts again, taut pis. I’m out for lunch!
At three o’clock you can get only a cold snack. I order cold chicken with mayonnaise. It costs a little more than I usually spend, but that’s exactly why I order it. And after a little debate I order a heavy Burgundy instead of the usual vin ordinaire. I am hoping that all this will distract me. The wine ought to make me a little drowsy.
I’m on the second bottle and the tablecloth is covered with notes. My head is extraordinarily light. I order cheese and grapes and pastry. Amazing what an appetite I have! And yet, somehow, it doesn’t seem to be going down my stomach; seems as if some one else were eating all this for me. Well, at least, I shall have to pay for it! That’s standing on solid ground… . I pay and off I go again on the wheel. Stop at a cafe for a black coffee. Can’t manage to get both feet on solid ground. Some one is dictating to me constantly-and with no regard for my health.
I tell you, the whole day passes this way. I’ve surrendered long ago. 0. K., I say to myself. If it’s ideas today, then it’s ideas. Princesse, a vos ordres. And I slave away, as though it were exactly what I wanted to do myself.
After dinner I am quite worn out. The ideas are still inundating me, but I am so exhausted that I can lie back now and let them play over me like an electric massage. Finally I am weak enough to be able to pick up a book and rest. It’s an old issue of a magazine. Here I will find peace. To my amazement the page falls open on these words: “Goethe and his Demon.” The pencil is in my hand again, the margin crammed with notes. It is midnight. I am exhilarated. The dictation has ceased. A free man again. I’m so damned happy that I’m wondering if I shouldn’t take a little spin before sitting down to write. The bike is in my room. It’s dirty. The bike, I mean. I get a rag and begin cleaning it. I clean every spoke, I oil it thoroughly, I polish the mudguards. She’s spick and span. I’ll go through the Bois de Boulogne….
As I’m washing my hands I suddenly get a gnawing pain in the stomach. I’m hungry, that’s what’s the matter. Well, now that the dictation has ceased I’m free to do as I like. I uncork a bottle, cut off a big chunk of bread, bite into a sausage. The sausage is full of garlic. Fine. In the Bois de Boulogne a garlic breath goes unnoticed. A little more wine. Another hunk of bread. This time it’s me who’s eating and no mistake about it. The other meals were wasted. The wine and the garlic mingle odorously. I’m belching a little.
I sit down for a moment to smoke a cigarette. There’s a pamphlet at my elbow, about three inches square. It’s called Art and Madness. The ride is off. It’s getting too late to write anyway. It’s coming over me that what I really want to do is to paint a picture. In 1927 or ‘8 I was on the way to becoming a painter. Now and then, in fits and starts, I do a water color. It comes over you like that: you f eel like a water color and you do one. In the insane asylum they paint their fool heads off. They paint the chairs, the walls, the tables, the bedsteads … an amazing productivity. If we rolled up our sleeves and went to work the way these idiots do what might we not accomplish in a lifetime!
The illustration in front of me, done by an inmate of Charenton, has a very fine quality about it. I see a boy and girl kneeling close together and in their hands they are holding a huge lock. Instead of a penis and vagina the artist has endowed them with keys, very big keys which interpenetrate. There is also a big key in the lock. They look happy and a little absent-minded. … On page 85 there is a landscape. It looks exactly like one of Hilaire Hiler’s paintings. In fact, it is better than any of Hiler’s. The only peculiar feature of it is that in the foreground there are three miniature men
At three o’clock you can get only a cold snack. I order cold chicken with mayonnaise. It costs a little more than I usually spend, but that’s exactly why I order it. And after a little debate I order a heavy Burgundy instead of the usual vin ordinaire. I am hoping that all this will distract me. The wine ought to make me a little drowsy.
I’m on the second bottle and the tablecloth is covered with notes. My head is extraordinarily light. I order cheese and grapes and pastry. Amazing what an appetite I have! And yet, somehow, it doesn’t seem to be going down my stomach; seems as if some one else were eating all this for me. Well, at least, I shall have to pay for it! That’s standing on solid ground… . I pay and off I go again on the wheel. Stop at a cafe for a black coffee. Can’t manage to get both feet on solid ground. Some one is dictating to me constantly-and with no regard for my health.
I tell you, the whole day passes this way. I’ve surrendered long ago. 0. K., I say to myself. If it’s ideas today, then it’s ideas. Princesse, a vos ordres. And I slave away, as though it were exactly what I wanted to do myself.
After dinner I am quite worn out. The ideas are still inundating me, but I am so exhausted that I can lie back now and let them play over me like an electric massage. Finally I am weak enough to be able to pick up a book and rest. It’s an old issue of a magazine. Here I will find peace. To my amazement the page falls open on these words: “Goethe and his Demon.” The pencil is in my hand again, the margin crammed with notes. It is midnight. I am exhilarated. The dictation has ceased. A free man again. I’m so damned happy that I’m wondering if I shouldn’t take a little spin before sitting down to write. The bike is in my room. It’s dirty. The bike, I mean. I get a rag and begin cleaning it. I clean every spoke, I oil it thoroughly, I polish the mudguards. She’s spick and span. I’ll go through the Bois de Boulogne….
As I’m washing my hands I suddenly get a gnawing pain in the stomach. I’m hungry, that’s what’s the matter. Well, now that the dictation has ceased I’m free to do as I like. I uncork a bottle, cut off a big chunk of bread, bite into a sausage. The sausage is full of garlic. Fine. In the Bois de Boulogne a garlic breath goes unnoticed. A little more wine. Another hunk of bread. This time it’s me who’s eating and no mistake about it. The other meals were wasted. The wine and the garlic mingle odorously. I’m belching a little.
I sit down for a moment to smoke a cigarette. There’s a pamphlet at my elbow, about three inches square. It’s called Art and Madness. The ride is off. It’s getting too late to write anyway. It’s coming over me that what I really want to do is to paint a picture. In 1927 or ‘8 I was on the way to becoming a painter. Now and then, in fits and starts, I do a water color. It comes over you like that: you f eel like a water color and you do one. In the insane asylum they paint their fool heads off. They paint the chairs, the walls, the tables, the bedsteads … an amazing productivity. If we rolled up our sleeves and went to work the way these idiots do what might we not accomplish in a lifetime!
The illustration in front of me, done by an inmate of Charenton, has a very fine quality about it. I see a boy and girl kneeling close together and in their hands they are holding a huge lock. Instead of a penis and vagina the artist has endowed them with keys, very big keys which interpenetrate. There is also a big key in the lock. They look happy and a little absent-minded. … On page 85 there is a landscape. It looks exactly like one of Hilaire Hiler’s paintings. In fact, it is better than any of Hiler’s. The only peculiar feature of it is that in the foreground there are three miniature men
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