You’ve had your say. Your fractured morning. Your sentences of oil and water. We don’t want to stay with you anymore. Nobody does. You cannot marry ants and raindrops. People have a right to avoid your farm. These misshapen harnesses and aimless straps—who are they for and what labour will you press them into?—deformed spirits meant to die that you revive with thirsts of curiosity and revenge. Someone else has declared war on you. We find it in the Notebooks:
Do not persecute me for not being beautiful
and do not pretend that I am a little girl
who has not yet learned to use make-up
Do you really want to fight me to the death?
I have children I must live for
You have only Beauty