Eva The Fugitive - pg. 40

Eva repeated dreamily a poem that begins more or less like this:

I see the day
Only through my night
It is a small soft noise
From a land out of sight

I understand once more that a human being consists of an infinite number of reflections. There is in you, Eva, a kind of "small, soft, noise," which guides you, for instance, along a path that at certain hours, and often, as I suppose, leads you only into a labyrinth. Eva passes the better part of the rest of the day in a maze of poetry, which releases me from any need to comment on this fact. In any case, I could not help telling myself that a very shady tree was preventing me from seeing her entry into that death zone. And moreover, in the name of the most beautiful kind of despair I could not reject this thought.