Nothing more closely resembles night than this ashen-blue daylight. It’s the daylight of death, the daylight of eternity. (Compare with my emotional response in Biot in 1924.) There is silence, but less a silence than stopped-up ears (eardrum suddenly convex? from change of pressure?). Drums muffled, trumpets muted, all of this naturally as in funeral marches. A veiled effulgence, a veiled splendor, a veiled glimmer, a veiled radiance.
What’s strange is that this effulgence itself would be veiled by the excess of its own luster.
There’s nothing more closely resembling night . . . That’s going too far. Let’s simply say: there’s something of night in this sky, it evokes night, it’s not all that different from night, it has an undertone of night, it has undertones of night, it has the same tones as night, it amounts to night. This daylight amounts to night, this ashen-blue daylight.
Just as a bursting sound deafens you, veils your eardrum and from that moment you don’t hear it except as through layers of veils, of cork, of cotton – can it not be that an overly resplendent sun in an overly dry atmosphere might veil your eyes, whence an intervention of funerary veils? – No, not so. (I remember a dawn with my father at Villeneuve-lès-Avignon near King René’s castle, a day when we had earlier taken my mother to the train station. I wasn’t yet ten. – That daylight amounts to night, that King René daylight. Perhaps it was the first time I had seen dawn. No, it was no longer dawn, but mid-morning. – But it didn’t have this same overwhelming quality – overwhelming is too strong.)
(I’m also reminded of: “The blue shutter closed with a bang, there’s daylight inside.”)
The sky is nothing but an immense blue-violet petal.
And everything beneath it, houses, roads, olive groves, green trees, varied enamel-yellow fields, all of it is like varicolored embers on the verge of dying out, on the verge of rekindling, like an ashy brazier if you blow on it: a few glimmers, almost phosphorescent, as though from an inner (secret) fire that sheds no light.
In some places ash, in others glowing coals (that’s not quite it). We mustn’t give these features of the landscape too much luster, lend them too much luster. No, the thing that was above-all, almost incomparably remarkable, was the ponderousness of lavender upon all this, through the branches particularly, etc.
Actually the landscape is gray, generally unremarkable, nobly notarized (?). It is the place, it is the land of Roman law, abstract, individual and social (??). (Lavender is the scent that best suits clean linen.)
May 11th to 12th
Over the countryside of Provence
reigns a periwinkle petal.
This ashen-blue daylight amounts to night
And weighs down on Provence.
On the outskirts of Aix-en-Provence
Petal of blue violets
Periwinkle or pencil lead
There’s some pink beneath the blue
All things otherwise being equal
Perfectly Monsieur Chabaud saw this
Better than Monsieur Cézanne
Rose periwinkle touched with pencil lead
Holds its shadow diffused in its own effulgence
Its shadow diffused by its own effulgence
Shadow diffused within bodies
As death within the purest joy
Petals of blue violets
Azure touched with pencil lead
skims the gardens of Provence
This ashen-blue daylight amounts to night
Chabaud the painter saw it well
The shadow in its luster
holds fast, diffused
The daylight gleaming over Provence
is an azure touched with pencil lead
This ashen-blue daylight amounts to night
Chabaud the painter saw it well
Its shadow in its luster
holds fast, diffused
Scattered wide.
Drums muffled, trumpets muted
This ashen-blue daylight amounts to night
Its shadow in its luster holds fast all diffused
Above Provence it gleams by day
an azure touched with pencil lead
Ashes in place of drops are scattered there
In place of imperceptible vapor imperceptible smoke
(but stable, unmoving)
In finest lattice the shades of darkness are suspended
A beautiful day is also a meteor
It holds all nature under the spell (the terror)
of its authority.
It holds all nature mute under its authority.
Every heart stops beating. (Only stupid June bugs and busses keep
on snorting and jostling.)
Who fails to see here that the sky is closed; the interstellar immensity is seen here in transparency, and it is grandiose (perceived against infinity). It’s no more than gas, unfit for breathing. As fish through clear water can perceive the atmosphere above them (or imagine it), so we perceive the ethereal medium.
To be sure, we had no need for this (to see the closed sky so clearly) in order to determine that God is an unworthy invention, a detestable insinuation, a dishonest proposition, an attempt alas too successful at breaking down the human conscience – and that men who incline us in this direction are traitors or imposters.
Elsewhere nature breathes towards skies taken up with other things, for example with moving the clouds about. Here, the skies are definitely taken up with stifling nature. It is quite clear, here, that nature is stifling.
It remains mute beneath the sky shut fast, pathetically attempting to live. The urns and statues assume the role of its interpreters, in supplication. But not a word in response. Splendid.
12th to 13th of May
Might I never manage to conquer this landscape, this Provence sky? That would really be too much! What a lot of trouble it’s giving me! At times it seems to me that I haven’t seen it sufficiently, and I tell myself I’ll have to go back there, as a landscape artist returns to his motif many times over.
And yet, this is a simple matter! At the place known as “La Mounine,” between Marseille and Aix, one morning in April around eight o’clock, through the windows of the bus . . . well, what’s the matter with me? I can’t manage to go on . . . The sky above the gardens (as I looked up toward the treetops, and though it was clear of all clouds), seemed to me commingled with shadow. As though reprimanded... Sky that’s blamed . . . Mingled with shadow and blame . . . (See also blême, wan) As though suffering from congestion . . .
This daylight amounts to night, this ashen-blue light –
It holds its shadow in the grips of its luster
The shadow holds to its luster completely diffused
Holds its shadow within the luster diffused
It weighs heavily over Provence (weighs isn’t the word)
It exerts there the authority of a black mirror.
Its shadow melded with its luster as though by a sponge.
– Is the most fluid ink truly the blue-black?
Azure touched with pencil lead
this heavy gas forms within a sealed chamber
from an explosion of blue violet petals.
This daylight amounts to night, this ashen-blue light
Its shadow all-embracing in the grips of its luster
Run together by a sponge.
It holds over Provence
– a landscape generally unremarkable though incandescent –
the authority of a painter’s dark mirror.
And since we’re speaking of painters
let’s say that Monsieur Chabaud, all things otherwise being equal,
saw this better than the great Cézanne.
Better rendered this tragic permanence,
the tragic inking of the situation.
What octopus has sighed its longing toward the sky?
Heavy-hearted, relieved himself?
What medicine dropper emptied its heavy heart?
Did some octopus retreat
&nb
sp; into the Provence sky?
Or does the air here come from
the explosion within a sealed chamber
of a violet blue petal?
This daylight amounts to night, this ashen-blue light
It holds its shadow in (the grips of) its luster
The temples of the houses are gripped too
Congestion of azure
What heavy-hearted octopus retreating in the sky
relieved himself, provoking this tragic
inking of the situation?
Occlusion, congestion, syncope.
This weather is what the colors have assumed to “fade away.”
Under the stress of light
The heart is oppressed by the anguish of eternity
and of death
It stops beating (no, bad)
Paralysis, syncope?
Immobility
Silence.
Springlike phosphorescence
Contraction of the generally unremarkable landscape.
Blême. Wan, colorless: very pale, more than pale (?). Etym.: from old Scandinavian blami, blue color, from blâ, blue.
Blâme: 1. Expression of opinion, of judgment by which one finds something bad in persons or things. 2. Reproach, stain (from blasphemare).
Congestion: from congerere, heap up, collect.
Estompé. Blurred, smudged: from stumpf, lathered, foamy.
Incandescence: become white. Luminescence: doesn’t exist in the Littré.
June 10
I was wondering earlier this evening, when I wasn’t more than half-asleep (by now it’s three-quarters):
1st Whether it wouldn’t be more “faithful” to write starting from the bus where I happened to be when I was struck by this scene (more faithful and more realizable . . .).
2nd Later . . . but did I dream this? It escapes me! . . . I acutely felt the difficulty of the subject, my merit, and my slim chance of carrying it off successfully.
June 10 to 30, 1941
If this study were to last much longer (it might very well take years . . .), never let myself be beguiled into forgetting the point of all this for me – simply, to record:
1st The bus was moving (cinematic):
2nd The sky’s dominance over the landscapea. the sky
b. the landscape
had greatly surprised, moved, intrigued me.
3rd When the statues, and the urns, appeared, my emotions suddenly surged: I felt a catch in my throat, a sob.
The bus (motorcoach) – (the motorcoach from Marseille to Aix) – (at the place known as “La Mounine,” or “Three Pigeons,” or “The Gray Brothers”) – was moving ahead (rather slowly it’s true, going uphill).
I was by the shut window, leaning against it, passing unnoticed (unnoticed by myself(?)). The time is important: eight in the morning, late April.
. . . But (to tell the truth) I noticed the movement of the bus only at the moment when the statues, the urns, appeared.
Perhaps I should invert the 1st and 2nd ? – Yes, I must.
Also indispensable to compare this to my emotional reaction at Biot and that at Craponne-sur-Arzon (sobs). Maybe the time at the Vieux-Colombier (or at the reading) when the elder Zosima kneels before Dimitri Karamazov; and again in Les Misérables when Monsignor Whozits kneels before the old conventionist (perhaps, but not certain). – Those two last sobbing episodes were caused by the noble theatrical coup, the climactic moment of justice rendered, reparation made. – For the others, it was when faced by the tragic element of landscapes, nature’s fatality (meteorological) (note: always involving skies) (and always the cinematic: at Biot the express: sudden change of scenery; at Craponne, it was on glancing back from a motorbike).
At Craponne, there was a human element, as at La Mounine (here statues and urns, there steeples, castle turrets, and village rooftops). At Biot, no, it was all “natural”: the sea alone.
The sight of a Cézanne one day (The Card Players?): nobility of the attempt compensating for the lack of means (?); and unquestionable reticence.
The restraint of the statues (the cherubs) and the urns, were part of it in the same sense, a large part of it.
July 1st to 12th, 1941
At what time – very early morning – had the great stroke of the gong rung out?
From which the whole atmosphere continues vibrating (yet without a sound still audible) and will vibrate on throughout the day?
The sun – impossible to gaze at it for long – lords over all, and its tambourine players circle round, arms raised above their heads.
Why no! All that is wiped clear, through sheer ardor. One could swear – looking back – that there was nothing but the blue sky, assuredly more vacant than the nocturnal sky.
What authority, what irresistible fist has struck the iron sheet of night to waken day’s vibrations, that will vibrate on till they fall still again?
Notes Struck in Afterthought on a Provence Sky
What octopus, retreating in the Provence sky, provoked this tragic inking of the situation? Once again, no! This has to do with a heavy gas, not a liquid. Something like the result of an explosion within a sealed chamber of a million blue violet petals.
There’s something like a scattering of ashes in the azure and an odor resembling gunpowder.
It’s as though the daylight were veiled by the excess of its own luster. This daylight amounts to night, this ashen-blue light. It holds its shade diffused within its luster. It holds its shade in the grip of its luster.
An irresistible fist has struck the iron sheet of night until it vibrates into white oblivion. From break of day. And the vibrations will amplify on till noon.
Apart from these vibrations an immobility holds forth, a stupefaction like that which follows gun shots, irreparable acts, crimes. – That’s how I approach the usual expressions about the malediction of the azure: “I’m haunted! The azure, the azure, the azure!” What had happened? Why this terrible authority of the skies over this very simple landscape, this orderly plotted landscape, this landscape of Roman law?
Why this severity, this punishment by intense light, inflicting clear cut shadow on the slightest debris, on the merest dust clot?
Why this suffocation, this brutality, these dark hues? Aren’t they simply the ransom paid for fine weather?
Every small beast under the sun has ducked back into its hole. Stones and vegetation alone can withstand it, remain prey to the terrible light.
And suddenly to a few statues, man’s preoccupation is revealed. He exposes them to the sun, he presents them to it, offers them to it; and in another sense he sets them in opposition to it. He has just placed them before it, as an artisan, much as the baker at the oven’s hearth offers – presents – his bread to the fire . . .
Such fleeting meteors are not among the easiest to describe.
Each thing stands as though at the rim of a precipice, at the rim of a shadow so clear-cut and so dark that it seems to gouge the soil. Each thing is at the rim of its own precipice – like a billiard ball at the rim of its pocket.
Notes Struck in Afterthought on a Provence Sky
July 12, 1941
Is blue-black truly the most fluid ink for pens? Azure touched with pencil lead: what octopus retreating into the depths of the Provence sky provoked this tragic inking of the situation?
Or is it, drop by drop, a matter of a poisonous infusion that begins as sky (ciel) and finishes as azure?4
It’s a matter of congestion. (So much azure has accumulated.)
The houses, the close-set tiles, keep their eyelids closed. The trees, heads throbbing, avoid moving the slightest leaf. No! It has to do with the explosion within a sealed chamber of a billion blue violets’ petals.
Roanne, July 13, 1941
At the place known as “La Mounine” between Marseille and Aix one April morning around eight o’clock, through the window of the bus, the sky though limpid above the gardens appeared to me mingled with shadow.
Wha
t octopus retreating out of the Provence sky had provoked this tragic inking of the situation?
Or wasn’t it instead something like the result of the explosion within a sealed chamber of a billion petals of blue violets?
There was something like a scattering of ashes in the azure, and I’m not sure the odor wasn’t like gunpowder.
One felt something like a congestion of the azure. The houses, with pressure on their temples, kept eyelids shut. The trees looked stricken with headaches: they avoided moving the slightest leaf.
It was as though the daylight were veiled by the excess of its own luster. This daylight amounts to night, I thought, this ashen-blue light. It holds fast to its shadow in the clutches of its luster. The shadow holds fast to its diffused luster.
Whence this terrible authority of the skies? What fist has struck the iron sheet of night, to make it vibrate so, become so radiant, its vibrations amplifying on till noon?
And how does it happen that such immobility holds forth, like the pause that so curiously follows on decisive acts, on gun shots, rapes, or murders?
Why this severity over the landscape that’s generally so unremarkable, this legally plotted countryside, this landscape under Roman law?
Why this pathetic despondence? Is this the price to pay for beautiful day? A beautiful day is also a meteor, not the easiest to describe, no doubt . . .
Roanne, July 14, 1941
At the place known as “La Mounine” not far from Aix-en-Provence one spring morning at first light, the sky though limpid through the foliage appeared to me mingled with shadow.
Mute Objects of Expression Page 8
