XXXVI 
  
THE DESIRE OF PAINTING 
  
  
UNHAPPY perhaps is the man, but happy is 
the artist whom desire tears in pieces. 
I am on fire to paint her who appeared to 
me so rarely and who fled so quickly, like a 
beautiful, regrettable thing which the traveller, 
borne away into the night, leaves behind him. 
How long it is since she disappeared. 
She is beautiful, and more than beautiful. 
She is surprising. In her black abounds, and 
every thought that she inspires is of night and 
the abyss. Her eyes are two caverns where 
mystery sparkles vaguely, and her glance kin-
dles like lightning. It is an explosion in the 
depths of shadow. 
I would compare her to a black sun; if one 
could imagine a black star that shed light and 
happiness; but she makes one think more 
readily of the moon, which doubtless has 
marked her with its fearful influence. Not the 
white idyllic moon, which resembles a cold 
bride, but the sinister, intoxicating moon, hung 
from the height of a stormy night and jostled