The visions of a Barbusse had not yet dawned to show
the truth to these talkative shadows. There was no difficulty for
Clerambault, he shone in these eloquent contests. For he had the fatal
gift of verbal and rhythmical facility which separates poets from
reality, wrapping them as if in a spider's web. In times of peace this
harmless web hung on the bushes, the wind blowing through it, and the
good-natured Arachne caught nothing but light in her meshes. Nowadays,
however, the poets cultivated their carniverous instincts--fortunately
rather out of date--and hidden at the bottom of their web one could
catch sight of a nasty little beast with an eye fixed on the prey.
They sang of hatred and holy butchery, and Clerambault did as they
did, even better, for he had more voice. And, by dint of screaming,
this worthy man ended by feeling passions that he knew nothing of. He
learned to "know" hatred at last, know in the Biblical sense, and it
only roused in him that base pride that an undergraduate feels when
for the first time he finds himself coming out of a brothel.
Now he was a man, and in fact he needed nothing more, he had fallen as
low as the others.
Camus well deserved and enjoyed the first taste of each one of these
poems and they made him neigh with enthusiasm, for he recognised
himself in them.
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