Little Poems in Prose

XXXV WINDOWS WHOSO looks from without into an open window never sees so much as he who looks at a closed window. There is nothing more pro- found, more mysterious, more fertile, more darksome, more dazzling, than a window lighted by a candle. What one may see in sunlight is always less interesting than what passes behind the glass. In this black or shin- ing cavity life lives, life dreams, life suffers. Beyond the waves of roof I see a woman, middle-aged, already wrinkled, poor, always bending over something, who never goes out. With her face, her clothing, her gesture, almost nothing, I have re-constructed the story of this woman;—or rather, her legend. And some- times I tell it to myself, and weep. If it had been a poor old man, I could have reconstructed his history just as easily. And I lie down to sleep, proud of having lived and suffered in others than myself. Perhaps you will say to me, “Are you sure that your fairy tale is true?”