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The sky is darker than the earth, I’ve known that since I was a child. In winter the sky is darker than the snow. In summer the sky is darker than the grain.

I said to You:

“Look.”

“What?” You asked. “Where?”

“There, there, quick, look.”

You looked but no doubt saw nothing.

I pointed with my finger. You looked.

Then You turned to me.

“It was just as if there were little eyes out there in the rye, little ones, black ones. Am I right?”

“You’re right, my dear.”

The rye ended, now there were potato fields, then came the beets, then potatoes again.

There were trends in those years, ones that did not of course leave me untouched either, though I tried to let them affect me as little as possible. There were various trends and a number of them really did affect me directly. I noticed phenomena around me that were hard to define, but they got mixed in with things I had loved for years. I had, for example, been involved for years with the fate of the world. I now felt a slight nausea when the thought struck me that I was responsible for everything. That kind of metamorphosis was calling forth reality, everyday life that was of course as opaque as always, like a Mayan veil covering everything, myself included. I was walking as if in a thick fog, though the sky was clear. Later on, I read in the papers that the world and mankind had begun to decline and the end was near. Lethargy started to appear everywhere. So we felt we all had something in common. In its own way, it was a pity that we weren’t being honest with one another, weren’t sharing our impressions. On the other hand, it was good that we didn’t understand why we were happy. Now, my dear, I know. We no longer needed to develop or evolve in any way. We were doomed to die and we were no longer linked to life by any kind of responsibility. We could be as free as the pigs who ran in the fields. Those were beautiful years, beautiful autumn days.