I would enjoy walking endlessly upon the sand,
if the windy course
of an almost Irish remorse
did not imitate you, and insistently beckon me elsewhere,
and my longings had not become centuries, when the air
is reflected by a star.
As soon as my course came to an end, I took
Marceline to La Morinière. The doctor had
advised that she was out of danger and only
needed fresh air to help her get better. I
was greatly in need of some rest myself. I
had been worn out by the long vigils next to
her bed, which I had insisted on keeping my-
self, the prolonged anxiety and especially
the sympathetic symptoms I had experienced
at the time of her embolism, when the spas-
modic beat of her heart was echoed in mine.
I felt as if I had been ill myself..
It was the start of haymaking. The air was
full of pollen, of scents, and it went to
my head like strong drink. It was as if I
hadn't breathed for a year, or else had been
breathing nothing but dust, so smoothly did
the honey-sweet air fill my lungs. As if in-
toxicated, I had sat down on a bank and now
had a panoramic view of La Morinière. I
could see the blue roofs, the still water
of the moat; surrounding it, the newly mown
fields, and others still full of grass; fur-
ther away, the bend of the stream, the woods
where I had gone riding with Charles last au-
tumn. I could hear singing, and it was get-
ting closer; it was the haymakers on their
way home, their pitchforks and rakes slung
over their shoulders.
Frank O'Hara
Donald Allen, editor
op. cit.
Homage to André Gide
[fragment]
1953
Voices, 1954©
André Gide
L'immoraliste
1902
David Watson
translation
op. cit.
Penguin, 2000©
