[One Hundred Thirty-nine]
“Yet, though the theology of God has become the secret of My unreason, I find Myself dangerously susceptible. It is when I seek to appease My loneliness by raising one of the babbling ones to My side. He enters My black heaven with a pretense of gratitude, fawning before Me and accepting My fellowship with humility. There follows then a moment of insidious diversion. Slowly a confusion fills Me. Yes, even I am open to confusion. It is a pity I have for the babbling one.
“I listen to his complaints. The sad-eyed Mallare staring at intolerable visions. Mallare, the dark chatterer. Or this other one—My friend the weeping lodge brother. Yes, I pity them and soothe them. But I find Myself singularly moved. Their prayers move Me. They begin to whisper that I return with them. I am tempted to follow them, to let them take My hand and lead Me into their strange houses.
“But I smile in time and My smile, fixed and profound, overcomes them. They prostrate themselves once more before the mystery [One Hundred Forty] of My indifference. And I remain the God of Mallare.
“On this day the dumb one sprawled along home with me, there were many curious things happened. I had walked all night in the snow weary with hunger. Rita, who had driven me into a moment of fury—I had destroyed her for the time. A strange destruction during which I pummelled the air like a veritable madman. But the ruse had served to rid me of the hallucination for the night. Finally, tired with walking and hunger, I fell from a bench in the park.
“When I awoke I recalled at once the grotesque struggle of the night. And with this dumb, weeping creature dogging my steps, I returned home. She was still with me. I smiled, although I confess there was despair in my thought. For I had fancied the miserable business of the night had put an end to the hallucination. No, she was still there. She was waiting for me on the couch.
“But my mind had not deceived itself. It was as I had thought. I had planned to rid [One Hundred Forty-one] myself of her by hating this phantom until my hate had darkened it. Then there would be nothing but an imperceptible shadow of her remaining, one with which my senses could no longer seduce themselves.
“And when I came into the room I saw my plot was working. For her eyes no longer gleamed. A radiance had left her.
“‘My hate begins to operate upon this chimera,’ I thought. I frowned at her and sat down, worn out with the walking of the night.
“‘I have undermined the infatuation of this phantom,’ I thought. I would have been elate but it occurred to me there was an inconsistency. This dumb one, this sniveling one, persisted. ‘And how should he, who was dependent upon her death for his existence, persist in her presence?’ This was a question for Mallare, the indifferent one. This was a query to answer.
“Ah, I will write more about this blubberer, for the answer to him is piquantly involved. It is like a head with too many hats. [One Hundred Forty-two] But not now—I will not write about him now. I will only bear him in mind.