Sure, I tell myself, it'll all be over soon .. . whew! . .. we have seen enough . . . at sixty-five and then some what difference can the worst H . . . Z . . . or Y superbomb make . . . they're zephyrs! . . . nothings! the only terrible thing is this feeling of having wasted all my time and all those myriatons of effort for that hideous satanic horde of alcoholic cocksucking flunkeys . . . lady, lady! have pity! . . . "Shut up and sell your gripes!" . . . hell, why not? . . . I'm willing, but to whom? . . . The buyers are down on me, it seems . . . they don't like me, they only buy authors that are practically the same as they are, plus that snippet of colored ribbon . . . head flunkey . . . head wipe-this-and-lick-that . . . skullduggery, holy water, lechery, bribery, guillotines . . . that way the reader feels at home, senses a kindred soul, a brother, indulgent, understanding, who'll stop at nothing . . .

"That'll do! . . . even among the galley slaves there were ten percent of volunteers. You're one of them."

You don't need to vote to have an opinion . . . several in fact . . . it's the privilege of old age . . . a time comes when you stop reading the articles . . . Just the ads . . . they tell you the whole story . . . and the death notices . . . you know what people want . . . and you know that they're dead . . . that's enough . . . all the rest is blah-blah-blah . . . left, center, right! . . . "Licensed enterprises" like the brothels in the old days . . . for every taste . . . little quirks and big ones . . .

You see them passing the hat for those poor refugees . . . Smyrniots, Bulgaro-Bastaves, Afro-Polacks, all so so pitiful, but hell, what about you? You don't exist any more! . . . can't you get that through your head? . . . you're through . . .

The class of 1912 is old stuff, I agree . . . but take it from me, the right time to have been born is 100 B.C.! . . . the stories we tell are a bore! . . . our plays, more yawns! and the movies and TV . . . disaster! what the people want and the élite too is Circuses! the gory kill! . . . honest-to-God death rattles, tortures, guts all over the arena! . . . no more silk-and-something stockings, false tits, sighs and moustaches, Romeos, Camellias, Cuckolds . . . hell no! . . . Stalingrads! . . . tumbrils full of lopped-off heads! heroes with their cocks in their mouths . . . you come home with your wheelbarrow full of eyes, like the Romans . . . no more little gilt-rimmed programs! . . . the real stuff, blood and entrails . . . no more of your rigged brawls . . . no! the Circus will put the theaters out of business . . . the forgotten fashion will come back . . . all the rage! . . . three hundred years before Jesus! "at last! at last!" What a novel that will be! I'll start right in . . . evening dress required? hell no! "The vivisection of the wounded"! . . . That's it! so much art, centuries of so-called masterpieces, all for nothing! swindles! crimes!

"So you call yourself a chronicler?"

"Exactly!"

"Without a qualm? . . ."

"Don't exasperate me!" I can still hear Madame von Dopf . . .

"I assure you, Monsieur Céline, if my husband had lived, we would never have had Hitler . . . that disastrous man! . . . intelligence without will comes to nothing, don't you see? . . . but will without intelligence? . . . disaster! . . . Hitler! . . . don't you agree, Monsieur Céline . . ."

"Certainly, Madame, certainly!"

God knows the guests of the Simplon in Baden-Baden were Gaullists, out-and-out anti-Hitlerites . . . ripe for the Allies! . . . with the Cross of Lorraine in their hearts, in their eyes, on their tongues . . . and none of your small-time flops, none of your demented down-at-the-heel shopkeepers . . . oh no! . . . plush addicts every last one of them, four star, two three chambermaids to every suite, sun balcony overlooking Lichtenhalallee . . . the banks of the Oos, that little brook with its genteel lappings, bordered by rare trees of every kind . . . silver-haired weeping willows trailing their branches . . . a hundred feet long . . . in the water . . . three centuries of fancy gardening . . . the Simplon only took people from the very best families, former reigning princes or Ruhr magnates . . . owners of steel mills with a hundred . . . or two hundred thousand workers . . . still . . . I'm speaking of July '44 . . . very well supplied with food, and very punctually . . . they and their hangers-on . . . butter, eggs, caviar, marmalade, salmon, cognac, Mumm's extra . . . airborne shipments, dropped by parachute on Vienna, Austria . . . direct from Rostov, Tunis, Epernay, London . . . the wars raging on seven fronts and all the oceans don't interfere with their caviar . . . the super-squashery . . . Z-bomb, sling, fly-swatter . . . will always respect the delikaitessen of the high and mighty . . . You won't see Kroukrouzof eating monkey meat in this world! Or Nixon feeding on noodles or Millamac on raw carrots . . . the tables of the high and mighty are a "Reason of State" . . . That's how it was at the Simplon . . . everything they needed! . . . on every floor assassins dressed like waiters carrying compote with maraschino . . . For those people, I don't have to tell you, money was no problem . . . guests and flunkeys thought nothing of putting ten fifteen millions on a single card at the "Mark Exchange" . . . and Christ, were they in a hurry to unload that stage money! . . . to buy something with it, anything . . . but where did the stuff come from? from right next door, from Switzerland . . . and via Switzerland from the Orient, from Morocco . . . and the prices! . . . whole wheelbarrows full of marks! . . . okay . . . okay . . . but what about the layout? . . . A whole floor of the Simplon was fixed up . . . genuine merchants! . . . curled, pomaded, swarthy . . . and slippery! . . . with the charm of a jaguar, tanged smiles, cousins of Nasser, Laval, Mendès, Youssef . . . "Come right in, dear patrons!" and those magnates, you should have seen the barrels full of foreign currency . . . the Simplon bazaar open for business . . . the real thing! a Bukhara rug; ten pounds of "Schlacht Bank" weighed out! . . . swept in! . . . tomorrow you'll see the same people in the bazaars of the Kremlin, Russia, or the White House, U.S.A., in the middle of another war! . . . ten twenty Hiroshimas a day, boom boom, sound and fury, that's all! . . . those hideous clashes, love taps, nothing at all. . . who cares as long as Mercury gets his own! . . . that's what counts! . . . in the Russian labor camps, in Buchenwald, in the darkest dungeons, or under the atomic ashes. Mercury is right there! Find his little temple . . . and you'll be all right . . . life goes on . . . So does Nasser and his canal! . . . and marmalade! . . . and genuine Rostov sturgeon! . . . and if you please, don't let the last remaining parachute get any ideas about dropping anything but a good big case of Chianti, plus glasses and beveled mirrors, "pure Venice," better than best! nylon underthings "Valenciennes style"! . . . for the "Kommissar" ladies! . . . ah, those perfumed idols, surfeited with tortures, yawning at the gallows . . . last parachute, remember those "ratafia-nylon" blouses! . . . don't make me say it again! . . . forget about those boring contraptions for pulverizing five provinces! so packed with neutrons that you'll never find Saint-Lazare Station again! . . . or a stray locomotive bolt! . . . enough of your nonsense!