Last night again, for a long time in that same place. It’s strange, because I wouldn’t be able to recount the precise memory of all that took place, but with every circumstance of the morning, every moment the impression is, “Ah, this was decided last night … ah, I saw that last night….” Like that. Strange. And it’s always the night before the day when I am to see you.
***
(Mother reads out the message she intends to distribute for January 1, 1968:)
“Remain young.
“Never stop striving towards perfection.”
***
(Then Mother goes into a long contemplation lasting nearly forty-five minutes.)
Anything to say, or to ask?… For my part, I can stay like this indefinitely. It never happens, mind you1—yes, for a minute or two, but a long moment like this gives me a sort of bath of tranquil light: there’s nothing left, nothing stirs anymore, it’s all luminous, peaceful, tranquil … a sort of bliss.
Whew!
Because Mother never has the time. ↩
***
November 8, 1967
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