ferdinand celine journey to the end of the night

We’re nothing now but an old lamppost with memories on a street where hardly anyone passes anymore.” That horrible little regret is all we have left of life, we’ve vomited up the rest along the way, with a good deal of effort and misery. The only thing you continue to value is petty regrets, like not finding time to run out to Bois-Colombes to see your uncle while he was still alive, the one whose little song died forever one afternoon in February. Sure, you still look for excuses for hanging around with the boys, but death is there too, stinking, right beside you, it’s there the whole time, less mysterious than a game of poker. But you no longer have the strength to renew your repertory. To rekindle your interest, you’d have to think up some new grimaces to put on in the presence of others. You’re fed up … From that time on you’re content to eat a little something, cadge a little warmth, and sleep as much as possible on the road to nowhere. You even lose your desire to keep hold of the small place you’d reserved yourself among the pleasures of life. You don’t care about being right anymore. You give up … For thirty years you’ve been talking. You’re good and sick of hearing yourself talk. “One fine day you decide to talk less and less about the things you care most about, and when you have to say something, it costs you an effort.

Ferdinand celine journey to the end of the night