...of the aloof

Not the slightest sign of acquiescence. His hand takes the postcard between fingertips and hands it on. Silence. Quite so. Silence. Not a word. He takes the reproduction and passes it around without saying a word. And what about it, I should like to know. What scornful reservations? What suppressed sneers? Careful, eh, you're not going to start up again? A perfectly ordinary man, you understand, a decent man, respectful of certain values, takes from your hand a Courbet reproduction which you hold out to him, gives it a glance... True, it was hardly a glance... Very well. Granted. He's probably familiar with it already. He's a very discerning man, a cultivated man. He says nothing. Silence gives consent. His silence shows respect. Modesty. He doesn't think that his opinion is important. He thinks it's not very interesting. That's all to his credit. He's a sincere man. A simple, frank man who dislikes empty phrases, affectation.
Simple. Modest. Frank. Deeply respectful. Silence gives consent. I quite agree. Well and good, I give in. Those were hallucinations. The dangerous signs of persecution mania. Even when it's plain to be seen, I give in. Even when it is so obvious that you'd like to scream, even when she leans over too far, as though she were bending under the weight of her admiration and starts cheeping, even when he looks at her, by all means, nothing took place between them, no secret sign between them to show their collusion, the immense aloofness they maintain and from where they see me, caught, entirely confined in their field of vision. No. They are right up against me. So close that they can have no general view, that's all they see, this close-up image of myself that I show them, this nice, frank, confident gaze that I lay, there, right on their eyes...

[The Golden Fruits, Sarraute, N.]