Paris, 22 July 1964
Our states of mind are so fragile. How little it takes (the
sky going cloudy, seeing a pretty woman go by, or simply lighting a cigarette
or letting a memory come to the surface) to go from discouragement to optimism
or vice versa. The whole color of life changes. All morning and most of the
afternoon I was gloomy, pensive, leafing through my novel, finding only flaws
not just there but also in my life, telling myself: “Decrepitude has begun.” I
even wrote to my brother to let him know some of my thoughts on the matter. At
dusk I looked out the window facing rue de Bagnolet and I thought something,
something imprecise I couldn’t recall now, but when I went back to my desk I
was happy, surer of myself, telling myself, “I’m not just anything, I am worth
something, I do things well, but slowly.” Now, as I write this, my enthusiasm—a
very grandiloquent word, something less than enthusiasm—continues and I
confront this evening, and as a result, all those to come, with confidence. But
who can assure me that this will last? The fact of having looked at my ashtray
and counted more than thirty butts there, the remains of a single, unfinished
day, frightens me a bit, begins perhaps to harm my serenity. Alida out buying
dinner. Maybe when she comes back she will find me disheartened again.
--Julio Ramón Ribeyro, La tentación del fracaso (The temptation of failure)
