p101: The narrator is lucid and eternally vigilant, yet along with the slightly paranoid fears about the beloved escaping from him via sleep into another world (‘I could kill you when I see you smiling in your sleep!’, ‘I will die, you will live, and that’s what awakens me!’, etc.), there is a strong yearning here for fusion: ‘You hold my body tight with your little strength./ Why are we not a plant with the same bark,/ The same heat, the same colour,/ And whose single flower would be our kiss.'p112-3: Plunged into complete emotional turmoil, Cocteau withdrew entirely from circulation, leaving Chanel to pay for the funeral and all remaining medical expenses. He would neither visit Radiguet’s dead body nor, on the day of the funeral, join the long procession in pouring rain to Père-Lachaise. Nor did he attend the service at the church of Saint-Honoré D’Eylau. In fact, while le Tout Paris gathered to pay their last respects to Radiguet in the white catafalque adorned with a single bouquet of red flowers (he had not yet reached the age of 21 and was still considered a minor), Cocteau remained alone in his bedroom consumed by thoughts of suicide. As he had freely admitted during a talk given earlier in May at the Collège de France in which he laid the basis for the Radiguet legend (the object of his devotion was present in the audience), he had staked his entire fortune on ‘the Radiguet number’. Radiguet had now returned to the heavens as unpredictably as he had arrived, and Cocteau sensed that he himself might now become a thing of the past. In fact, the early deaths of Cocteau’s lovers and protégés were already embalming his twenties and early thirties. From now on he would always be focused on the past, left to mourn, regret and somehow preserve a Golden Age he had served to create. Indeed, he would spend the rest of his life celebrating the legacy of Radiguet as the embodiment of artistic freedom. Yet the hardest thing of all remained to do: to live without him. It would constitute Cocteau’s daily trauma for many long y ears to come.
I’m crazily jealous of Radiguet like never have been. Lunae has loved few people and Cocteau is one. He has never so much hated his female body which concealed his virility in its totality. Why Cocteau could not have chosen him instead? He could have outperformed this damn Radiguet in every, every, every single aspect and been much more worthy of the senior's love. This anachronistic jealousy burns.
Et mon amour dort dans la Chapelle Saint Blaise des Simples.