She sits in the Dôme, the Coupole
writing letters to Soldat Sartre:
. . . pourquoi la conscience humaine
. . . why would the human conscience
contruisait un monde
construct a world
avec des données et des distances et des masses
with givens and distances and masses
qui ne soit pas à la mésure de l’homme?
which are not based on the human scale?
Things are big in all the wrong ways, demeaning us.
Riding on her bicycle through a Paris grey as Occupation
she asks herself:
Qu’est-ce que c’est qu’une guerre?
But what is war?
Compassion, fashion: she neglects neither.
She describes the new turban she has bought,
in love with love and the tender language of description.
She professes herself content with
cette chance merveilleuse
this marvellous good luck
d’être dans le même monde
to be in the same world
as this man she loves.
Chinaman Creek 