Chapter Seventy-Five
Marcel Lapin-Défunt, having left Deirdre to sleep off their passion, stood in the patio, his exaggerated reflection in the glass reminding him of a satirical caricature by a particularly spiteful political cartoonist.
One day, he told himself, death will overtake me, as the world shows no sign of halting its course around the sun in order to forestall it. And what may be said of me then? Away from the hagiographic eulogies at my funeral, the honest thoughts of my friends and family will be that I achieved not a whit. And any last thought I enjoyed before my expiration would have no doubt agreed: that all my momentary, impressionistic pleasures will soon vaporise from every memory, and count for nought. Save, of course, for the ruination of my wife—just as surely as she’s ruined me—and the contempt I’ve shown for the beautiful, innocent things of this world, and for the transcendent.
It rather makes a mockery of life, he went on, to keep on living, to insist on side-stepping death, which might, in contrast, boast some meaning—to keep on breathing and willing it not to come, when I’m accomplishing nothing of value in the meantime. So why go on?
Then he thought of Deirdre. She was worth living for. If he could only convince her to go on living, and to love life, then both their lives, he reasoned, would prove worthwhile.
He looked around. There were no flowers to buy her, or chocolates. No: a poem—he would compose a poem for her. He knew nothing about such things, but his naiveté would make it all the more endearing, he wagered.
So off he went to pen his masterpiece.