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Lamartine, Alphonse de, 1790-1869

"Raphael Pages of the Book of Life at Twenty"

If at that
time I had been offered an embassy to quit Paris, and a palace to leave
my truckle-bed in the ante-room, I would have closed my eyes not to
see, and my ears not to listen to Fortune. I was too happy in my
obscurity, thanks to the ray, invisible to others, which warmed and
illumined my darkness.
My happiness dawned as the day declined. I habitually dined at home
alone in my cell, and my repast generally consisted of a slice of
boiled meat, some salad, and bread. I drank water only, to save the
expense of even a little wine, so necessary to correct the insipid and
often unwholesome water of Paris. By this means, twenty sous a day paid
for my dinner, and this meal was sufficient not only for myself but to
feed the dog who had adopted me. After dinner, I used to throw myself
on my bed, overcome by the application and solitude of the day, and
strove thus to abridge by sleep the long, dark hours which yet divided
me from the moment when time commenced for me. These were hours which
young men of my age spend in theatres, public places, or the expensive
amusements of a capital, as I had done before my transformation.


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