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445 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1945
He threw a last glance at the sea: war had not yet broken out: people were dining quietly in their villas: no guns, no soldiers, no barbed wire, the fleet at anchor off Bizerta or Toulon; it was still permissible to view the sea in splendour, the sea of the last evenings of peace. But it was inert and non-committal: an expanse of salt water, moving, but indicative of nothing.
The post-war epoch was a beginning. The beginning of peace. It passed unhurried, as a morning passes. Jazz was a beginning, and the cinema, which I so much enjoy, was also a beginning. Surrealism, too; and Communism. I hesitated, I chose with care. I had time enough. Time, peace—they were the same. And now that future lies at my feet, dead.
