And then memories sweep over me. Do not be afraid: I shall not describe any of them; I shall not even tell you the names; I have even forgotten the names, or never actually knew them. I can see the particular curve of a neck, or a mouth or a cheek, certain faces loved for their sadness, the curb of weariness which pulled down their lips, or even that indefinable ingenuousness which is part of the perversity of an ignorant, laughing youth: everything that brings the soul to the surface of a body. I think of unknown persons I shall never see again, whom I do not particularly wish to see again, and whom, precisely because of that, I can speak of or be silent about with sincerity. I did not love them. I did not wish to hold on to the little happiness they brought me; I did not hope for understanding from them, or even for a lasting tenderness: quite simply, I listened to their life. Life is the mystery of every being: it is so admirable that one can always love it. Passion has need of cries, love itself takes pleasure in words, but sympathy can be silent. I have felt it, not only in anticipated moments of gratitude and satisfaction, but also toward people from whom I had no thought of any joy whatsoever. I have known it in silence, when those who inspired such sympathy would not have understood it. It is not necessary for someone to understand it. In the same way I have loved the characters of my dreams, poor, mediocre people, and sometimes women. But women, however much they may claim the opposite, always see tenderness as leading to love.

In the room next door to mine lived a young girl named Marie. Do not imagine that Marie was very beautiful; she had a quite ordinary face one would pass without noticing. Marie was little better than a servant. She had a job, but I doubt if her work would have provided her with enough to live on. In any case, whenever I visited her I always found her alone. I suppose she arranged it so that she would be alone at those times.