Chapter 6.
A month or so has elapsed since I wrote this. I went to see Gustave yesterday in the wooden shed he built with the help of Paul Vaudois and that he calls “Ma petite Jérusalem”. It was night and it was wet and windy, I can't and mustn't see him during daylight, and my visits must be sparse. Having parked my car quite a distance away I had to walk across farmland to reach the hut; the fields, tonsured like a monk's head, serene, soft under my soaking feet, even through my boots. Sinking into the boggy earth was a sensuous experience. The earth looked black, was slippery and clung to each of my steps. A ribbon of mist made sky and earth come together, like happiness and sorrow, joy and fear, hope and despair.
I stood in the middle of the field and wondered whether all our actions
