The thought that I am thirty breaks my heart. A whole dead life behind me. Ahead of me, an opaque stretch in which I see nothing. I feel old, and sad as an old man.Related posts:
Cette idée que j'ai trente ans me navre. Toute une vie morte derrière moi. Devant, une vie opaque où je ne vois rien. Je me sens vieux, triste comme un vieux.
"A peculiar anthologic maze, an amusing literary chaos, a farrago of quotations, a mere olla podrida of quaintness, a pot pourri of pleasant delites, a florilegium of elegant extracts, a tangled fardel of old-world flowers of thought, a faggot of odd fancies, quips, facetiae, loosely tied" (Holbrook Jackson, Anatomy of Bibliomania) by a "laudator temporis acti," a "praiser of time past" (Horace, Ars Poetica 173).
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Wednesday, November 15, 2017
Inscription for a 30th Birthday Card
Jules Renard, Journal (May 29, 1894; tr. Louise Bogan and Elizabeth Roget):