Living death

Rereading the novels in translation of Francois Mauriac as the last winter rains splash down around the valley — very green in places and with almond and quince blossom in some orchards, aloes still flaming on the mountainside.

From Thérèse Desqueyroux

“What an odd creature you are, Bernard, with your constant fear of death! Do you never have a feeling, as I do, of utter futility? No? Doesn’t it occur to you that the sort of life people like us lead is remarkably like death?”

 

The statue of a ‘pleurant‘ who would weep for eternity at the graveside of a loved one

 

Veiled

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