In the midst of the most sorrowful of my experiences I used to think of these things, and often I would
say to myself—with what bitter regrets!—"If on the
evening when I met Lirat, in the forgotten place where
I certainly had nothing to do, I had but stayed at
home and worked or dreamed or slept, I would have
been today the happiest man on earth and there would
have happened to me none of the things which did
happen to me." And that moment of trivial hesitancy,
the moment when I was asking myself: "Shall I go
out or shall I not?," that moment embraced the most
important act in my life; my whole destiny was determined in the brief space of time which in my memory left no more trace than a gust of wind, which blows
down a house or uproots an oak tree, leaves upon the
skies! I recall the most insignificant details of my
life. For example, I remember the blue velvet suit,
laced in front, which I wore on Sunday, when I was
very little. I can swear, yes I can swear, that I could
count the grease spots on the habit of cure Blanchetière or even the number of tobacco grains he used to drop while snuffing up his pinch of snuff.
It seems a senseless and yet disquieting thing: very often when I cry, or look at the sea or even watch the sunset upon an enchanted field—I can still see by that odious freak of irony which is at the bottom of our ideals, our dreams and our sufferings—I can still see upon the nose of an old guard we had, father Lejars, a big tumor, grumous and funny with its four hair filaments which proved an excellent attraction for flies. . . . Whereas the moment which decided my life, which cost me my peace, my honor, and reduced me to the position of a scabby dog; this moment which I passionately wish to reconstruct, to bring back again to memory with the aid of physical reminders and mental associations—this moment I cannot recall.
