“The wind went whirling around the poplars; it came from
elsewhere, from everywhere; it went rushing through space, and I, too, was
whirled away with it, without stirring from where I stood, right to the ends of
the earth. When the moon rose in the sky, I would be in touch with far-off
cities, deserts, oceans and villages which at that moment were bathed, as I
was, in its radiance. I was no longer a disembodied mind, an abstract gaze, but
the turbulent fragrance of the waving grain, the intimate smell of the heath
moors, the dense heat of noon or the shiver of twilight; I was heavy, yet I was
like vapor in the blue airs of summer and knew no bounds.”
— Simone de Beauvoir in “Memoirs of a Dutiful Daughter”
(1959)
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