Oh my...

"On the Monday afternoon, sitting on the sunny terrace in the Luxembourg Gardens, I read ‘My Life’ by Isadora Duncan and day-dreamed about my own existence. It wouldn’t be a stormy life, nor even a startling one. All I wanted was to be in love, to write good books, to have children and ‘friends to whom I can dedicate my books, and who will show my children by personal example what poetry and philosophy can be.’ My husband was to play a very small part (…). In this future life, which I began to feel was imminent, the essential thing would still be writing. I felt I had been right not to bring out anything too despairing while I was still so young: at present I wanted to express both the tragic sense of life, and its beauty. Meditating thus upon my destiny, I caught sight of Herbaud walking round the lake with Sartre: he saw me, and did not acknowledge me. How mysteriously misleading private diaries can be! I made no mention of this incident which nevertheless had made me sick at heart. I was hurt that Herbaud should have made this denial of our friendship, and felt that sense of exile which I hated above everything else."