Selected Cronicas

INSPIRATION

Ample bosom, broad hips, eyes chaste, brown, and dreamy. Now and then she would cry out suddenly. Speaking so quickly that she could scarcely be heard, she confided cheerfully with an air of impatience:

‘I thought that I could never be a writer, I have so … so … little to say.’

One day, however, as if hidden from herself, she had an idea and jotted down some sentences about the beauty of the Sugar Loaf Mountain in her notebook. Just a few words, for she was so concise. Time passed and one evening when she was alone she remembered that she had made a few notes about something or other — the Sugar Loaf Mountain? The sea? She went to look for her notebook. She searched the entire house. She systematically went through every drawer and cupboard. She even opened shoe-boxes in the hope of having been so secretive as to have hidden her notes in a shoe-box. What a good idea. Gradually the sensation of choking grew worse. She ran her hand over her forehead — now she was searching for something more than her notebook, she was searching for what inspiration had dictated. Let us see, let us be patient and have another look. What could she have written in her notebook? She remembered it was something very spiritual about something very picturesque. For her there was nothing like the picturesque. Let’s have another look. It’s a question of willpower, of getting hold of it somehow. What a calamity — she said, standing motionless in the middle of the room, not knowing where to turn, where to look. What a calamity. The room, tranquil in the evening light. And somewhere there was something written, some intimate thought, of that she was certain. She unbuttoned the collar of her blouse. Don’t be down-hearted, she whispered to herself, look amongst your papers, amongst your letters, amongst the cuttings and reviews people keep sending you. Ah, she reasoned illogically, if only they had written to her more often, then she would have more papers to search through. But her orderly life was exposed, she had few places for hiding things, her existence was tidy. Her only hiding place was herself, her own soul which she had once bared in her notebook. But how happy she felt to have pieces of furniture and boxes where she might discover things by chance. She had places where she could go on searching indefinitely.

Now and then she would make another search. From time to time, she would remember her notebook and be seized with fresh hope. Until one day, after several more years had passed, she remarked modestly:

— When I was younger, I used to do a little writing.