When I come to lie in your arms, you sometimes ask me in which historical moment do I wish to exist. And I will say Paris, the week Colette died... Paris, August 3rd, 1954. In a few days, at her state funeral, a thousand lilies will be placed by her grave, and I want to be there, walking that avenue of wet lime trees until I stand beneath the second-floor apartment that belonged to her in the Palais-Royal. The history of people like her fills my heart. she was a writer who remarked that her only virtue was self-doubt. (A day sor two before she died, they say Colette was visited by Jean Genet, who stole nothing. Ah, The grace of the great thief...)
'We have art," Nietzche said, "so that we shall not be destroyed by the truth."
那些我躺在你手臂上的時刻﹐有時你問我最想回到哪個歷史時段。我會說巴黎﹐科雷特過世的那個禮拜...... 1954年﹐八月三日的巴黎。幾天後﹐在她的國葬上﹐千百朵百合擺在她的墓前﹐我想在那裡﹐走過菩提树的大道﹐來到她在大皇宮二樓的公寓樓下。像她一樣的人生令我感動。她唯一的道德就是自我懷疑﹐這樣的一個作家。(人們說﹐惹內在她死前一兩天拜訪了她﹐什麼都沒偷。啊竊賊的善意...)
“我們有藝術﹐”尼采說﹐“我們永遠不會被真理毀滅。”
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