#dardanelles

“The bare life, stripped of all pretence, as it really is, free from all illusions. Any noise one might make would also be swallowed up. That is another reason why I do not want people to know me. Because they would not know me as I really am. Sooner unknown, than ill-known, and sooner unknown than little known.

I shiver with horror when I think of glory and all its destructive illusions.

No more family, no more worries about a job or money. No more conceit, no more future. If ever I have the courage to be, as an unknown, I shall be, frighteningly so.

But who shall I be? I shall not be anyone in particular, I shall be, quite simply. A man, the man who is at the centre of the universe without any gods to watch him. For I am not just an idea, a dream, some evanescent glow-worm. I exist in flesh and blood. First and foremost in flesh and blood. What is good is that I am naked, or rather penniless, with one spare shirt, a man who has reconstituted within himself the rudiments of every reality, who works with his hands and his feet, who eats, who drinks, who sleeps.

Later I shall exist socially, too. Little by little I accumulate such force of being that my secret presence among men makes itself felt. Ah, I believe in the effulgence of prayer, in communion, in the reversibility of grace: the less known I am, the closer I am to men. The more they feel my presence. Eventually they are imbued with me. It even becomes embarrassing; people look at me, I have to move farther away, but at the same time, I have proof that I exist not only in flesh and blood, a labourer, a worker, but also as a social agent, a zealous instigator. My solitude is a subtle means of collaboration.

Or am I deluding myself? Am I trying to escape from myself? Too refined, too squeamish? I have given my family a false address, a false sector number. Cruel young man. Thus I am naked, I do not receive any letters. Perhaps that is my way of being a monk?

Whatever the case, at times this life is fun, but it is not fun all the time. Therefore, since my emotions are contradictory and form a complex whole, there can be no doubt about it; I am inside reality. To be poor is to be dirty. I have lice which grow fat on my filth. I have wielded a pickaxe and have blisters. My muscles hurt. I am constantly thirsty. With my cropped head and my beard, I am a repulsive sight. I do not get any letters. I shall die totally unnoticed. My death won’t make any difference. Oh, my grand silence. It’s my general who will be talked about. This test is no sham: there is no going back on it.

Such is my code of conduct. It is only good for me and for a few others.”