It was getting late by this time, nine or ten o’clock. Over the whole outstretched town one could already perceive the signs of silence that would soon fall. Slumber was gliding into everything and coiling up softly. A tranquil, frozen substance that came from nowhere, perhaps from the depths of the sky or from a spot on the horizon, the black, deep patch opposite the point where the sun had disappeared. Like animals possessed by a strange uneasiness, just like a flight of pigeons or a swarm of flies, men and women were prowling along pavements which were sometimes in shadow, sometimes lit by the pallid shine from a shop-window. And the street lamps were beginning to burn all alone in the compact darkness.
Personally, when I’d had a look at these things spread out everywhere before my eyes, I felt a sort of clear, well-defined melancholy take possession of my mind. I realised that everything was evident, pure and frozen, consuming itself eternally without heat or sparkle, like stars in empty space. I realised that time was going by, that I was on earth, and that I was wearing myself out a little more every day, without hope, but without despair. I realised that when autumn comes round again in the cycle, I cease to be anything at all.
[The Boat is Heading for the Island, from Fever, Le Clézio, J. M. G.]
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