LOUIS ARAGON – LE PAYSAN DE PARIS

Instead of weighing the behavior of men, look over the women passing by. They are large fragments of glinting light, flashes still clad in winter fur, brilliant and mobile mysteries. No, I don’t want to die before I have come near each one, at the very least touched her and felt her give way; let this pressure overcome her scruples, then she can beat it! (pg 3)

Man live with their eyes closed on the edge of magical precipices. They innocently handle dark symbols; their unknowing lips repeat terrible incantations, formulae dangerous as pistols. The sight of a bourgeouis family drinking its morning café au lait, oblivious to the unknowable which peeps through in the red and white squares of the tablecloth, is enough to make you shudder. I shall not speak of the thoughtless use of mirrors, of obscene graffiti scrawled on the walls, of the letter “W” used nowadays without the suspicion it should arouse, of the cabaret songs one hums without knowing their lyrics, of foreign languages introduced into everyday life before any investigation of their demoniacal origins, of obscure evocative words mistaken for telephone calls, and of the Morse code, whose mere name should give one pause. With all that, how could men become aware of magic spells? This passerby they jostle, haven’t you noticed something amiss? It’s a stone statue walking, that other is a giraffe transmogrified into a bookmaker, and the third, ah, him, shhhh: he’s a man in love. (pg 144)

God is rarely to be found in my mouth. (pg 166)