For I knew I would not be always young, and that summer does not last for ever either, nor even autumn, my mean soul told me so. She disturbed me exceedingly, even absent. Indeed she still disturbs me, but no worse now than the rest. I told her to come just the odd time. Nor men either. Nor animals either. What I understand best, which is not saying much, are my pains.
Yes, there are moments, particularlyin the afternoon, when I go all syncretist, a la Reinhold. What equilibrium! But even them, my pains, I understand ill. That must come from my not being all pain and nothing else. Then they recede, or I, till they fill me with amase and wonder, seen from a better planet. Not often, but I ask no more. Catch-cony life! To be nothing but pain, how that would simplify matters! Impious dream. Once a week? Once in ten days? Once a fortnight? It was in this byre, littered with dry and hollow cowclaps subsiding with a sigh at the poke of my finger, that for the first time in my life, and I would not hesitate to say the last if I had not to husband my cyanide, I had to contend with a feeling which gradually assumed, to my dismay, the dread name of love.
These are ardently soughtf after, stuffed and carried in procession. Wherever nauseated time has dropped anicefat turd you will find our patriots,  sniffmg it up on all fours, their faces on fire. Elysium of the roofless. Hence my happiness at last. Lie down, all seems to say, lie down and stay down. I see no connexion between these remarks. But that one exists, and even more than one, I have little doubt, for my part. But what? I was therefore in a position, in spite of all, to put a label on what I was about when I found myself inscribing the  letters of Lulu in an old heifer patyor flat on my face in the mud under the moon trying to tear up the nettles by the roots.
Flowers are a diffierent matter. Love brings out the worst in man and no error. But what kind of love was this, exactly? Somehow I think not. Or is this a different variety? There are so many, are there not? All equally if not more delicious, are they not? Perhaps I loved her with a platonic love? Come now! I thought of Anna then, I who had learnt to think of nothing, nothing except my pains, a quick think through, and of what steps to take not to perish oS-hand of hunger, or cold, or shame, but never on any account of living beings as such I wonder what that means whatever I may have said, or may still say, to the contrary or otherwise, on this subject.
Now the truth is they never gave me a hat, I have always had my own hat, the one my father gave me, and I have never had any other hat than that hat. I may add it has followed me to the grave.
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I thought of Anna then, long long sessions, twenty minutes, twenty-five minutes and even as long as half an hour daily. I obtain these figures by the addition of other, lesser figures. That must have been my way of loving. Are we to infer from this I  loved her with that intellectual love which drew from me such drivel, in another place? To divellicate urtica plenis manibus? And felt, under my tossing head, her thighs to bounce like so many demon bolsters? In order to put an end, to try and put an end, to this plight, I returned one evening to the bench, at the hour she had used to join me there.
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There was no sign of her and I waited in vain. The next day I was earlier to the bench, much earlier, night having barely fallen, winter night, and yet too late, for she was there already, on the bench, under the boughs tinkling with rime, her back to the frosted mound, facing the icy water.
I told you she was a highly tenacious woman. I felt nothing. What interest could she have in pursuing me thus? The cold had embossed the path. What could she see in me, would she kindly tell me that at least, if she could. She seemed warmly clad, her hands buried in a muff. As I looked at this muff, I remember, tears came to my eyes. And yet I forget what colour it was. The state I was in then! I have always wept freely, without the least benefit to myself, till recently. The state I am in nowl It was things made me weep.
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And yet I felt no sorrow. So I wonder if it was really the muff that evening, if it was not rather the path, so iron hard and bossy as perhaps to feel like cobbles to my tread, or some other thing, some chance thing glimpsed below the threshold, that so unmanned me. As for her, I might as well never have laid eyes on her before. She sat all huddled and muffled up, her head  sunk, the muff with her hands in her lap, her legs pressed tight together, her heels clear of the ground.
Shapeless, ageless, almost lifeless, it might have been anything or anyone, an old woman or a little girl. I alone did not know and could not. Is it on my account you came?
I said. She managed yes to that. Well here I am, I said.
"First Love" lyrics
And I? Had I not come on hers? Here we are, I said. I sat down beside her but sprang up again immediately as though scalded.
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I longed to be gone, to know if it was over. But before going, to be on the safe side, I asked her to sing me a song. I did not know the song, I had never heard it before and shall never hear it again. Then I started to go and as I went I heard her singing another  song, or perhaps more verses of the same, fainter and fainter the further I went, then no more, either because she had come to an end or because I was gone too far to hear her.
I lived of course in doubt, on doubt, but such trivial doubts as this, purely somatic as some say, were best cleared up without delay, they could nag at me like gnats for weeks on end. So I retraced my steps a little way and stopped. At first I heard nothing, then the voice again, but only just, so faintly did it carry. When  the voice ceased at last I approached a little nearer, to make sure it had really ceased and not merely been lowered. Then in despair, saying, No knowing, no knowing, short of being beside her, bent over her, I turned on my heel and went, for good, full of doubt.
Let us say it was raining, nothing like a change, if only of weather. She had  her umbrella up, naturally, what an outfit. I asked if she came every evening. No, she said, just the odd time. The bench was soaking wet, we paced up and down, not daring to sit. I took her arm, out of curiosity, to see if it would give me pleasure, it gave me none, I let it go.
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But why these particulars. To put off the evil hour. I saw her face a little clearer, it seemed normal to me, a face like millions of others. It looked neither young nor old, the face, as though stranded between the vernal and the sere. Such ambiguity I found difficult to bear, at that period. I had seen  faces in photographs I might have found beautiful had I known even vaguely in what beauty was supposed to consist. I admired in spite of the dark, in spite of my fluster, the way still or scarcely flowing water reaches up, as though athirst, to that falling from the sky.
She asked if I would like her to sing something. I replied no, I would like her to say something. I thought she would say she had nothing to say, it would have been like her, and so was agreeably surprised when she said she had a room, most agreeably surprised, though I suspected as much. Who has  not a room? Ah I hear the clamour. I have two rooms, she said.
My First First Love
Just how many rooms do you have? She said she had two rooms and a kitchen. The premises were expanding steadily, given time she would remember a bathroom. Is it two rooms I heard you say? Yes, she said. At last conversation worthy of the name. Separated by the kitchen, she said. I asked her why she had not told me before. I must have been beside myself, at this period. And I knew that away from her I would forfeit this freedom. There were in fact two rooms,  separated by a kitchen, she had not lied to me.
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It introduced that title to buyers in Berlin. The [ Wild Bunch is spinning off its international sales operation as a standalone company, Wild Bunch International WBI , under French film industry veteran Vincent Maraval, who co-founded the original firm with Brahim Chioua and Vincent Grimond 17 years ago. The new outfit, which is being set up as a subsidiary of Wild Bunch, will handle world [ Of all the ways to begin a movie, few are more cruel than presenting a character such as Lara Jenkins and, before the audience has even gotten the chance to know her, showing her wearily open the window to her depressing German flat, position a chair and prepare to jump.
Then the doorbell rings.