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The Lightning

 

Human labor! that is the explosion which lights up my abyss from time to time.

"Nothing is vanity; to science, and forward!" shouts the modern Ecclesiastes, that is to say Everyone. And nonetheless the corpses of nasties and loafers fall on the hearts of others... Ah! quickly, quickly a bit; yonder, beyond the night, those recompenses future, eternal... shall we escape them?

—What can I do there? I know labor; and science is too slow. Let prayer gallop and light rumble... I see it fine. It's too simple, and too hot; they will do without me. I have my duty; I shall be proud of it in the manner of several, by putting it aside.

My life is worn down. Go on! let's feign, let's loaf, o pity! And we shall exist in amusing ourselves, dreaming monster loves and fantastic universes, complaining and quarrelling with the appearances of the world, acrobat, beggar, artist, bandit—priest! On my hospital bed, the odor of incense came back to me so strong: guardian of sacral seasonings, confessor, martyr...

I recognize there my dirty childhood education. What then!... To go my twenty years, if the others go twenty years...

No! no! at present I revolt against death! Labor seems too lightweight to my pride: my betrayal to the world would be a torture too brief. At the last moment, I would attack to right, to left...

Then—oh!—dear poor soul, would not eternity be lost for us!