death itself--a masculine noun in many languages--fall in love with him.

Meanwhile we wait for him. No one can believe that his departure is final. Jean is still there in the mirror, in the dark picture of the entresol of the Palais-Royal with its low ceilings like the passage to a theater box, in the red velvet of some stage curtain, in the autumn mists of Milly, between the covers of books that were read, reread, loved, and now necessarily read again and rediscovered with happy surprise to be like memories of him: poems, plays, novels, memoirs, essays, which by rare privilege, are in little danger of purgatory. Work that the fadists will in time discover with wonder when they have outgrown the age of ingratitude. Work that is for all times.

Who would have believed it? It was often said, and likely with some truth, that Cocteau was a juggler and trickster. For nearly fifty years he created fashion or gave the impression that he was the creator. He was accused of aping, in turn, Victor Hugo, Edmond Rostand, Racine for RENAUD ET ARMIDE and Henri Bataille for LES PARENTS TERRIBLES or LES MONSTRES SACRES, but it turns out that he imitated Jean Cocteau alone. He caricatured and copied himself without the slightest self-betrayal. It is he that is inimitable.

Where is he now? One wing of the Palais-Royal came down when Madame Collette died, and now the wing which stands along the Rue de Monpensier will be forever empty.

Where is a welcome like his to be found: those three minutes granted a visitor that lasted three hours, those fireworks he set off in an intimate interview with a new admirer in search of an autograph, a preface or material assistance? Is he in the herb garden at the chapel of Milly where he was buried? Those who were at the funeral can believe it.

Is there a better place to find him? He himself covered with long-stemmed flowers and beautiful faces the white walls of the small sanctuary--small like the entresol of the Palais-Royal. He was buried in the apse of this chapel surrounded by mint, evergreen, and willows. One last transformation? A final symbol? It is a far cry from those ambivalent scenes of Oxen on the roof, and from the purples and powders of backstage.

Was he playing a role again? There was a joyful autumn

sun, a quiet gathering without sadness, a few duchesses and, academicians, ten movie stars who mingled with the crowd, the firemen's brass band, and the village school children, and everyone very much moved saying, "How beautiful". Is. this the final transformation of the magician? If not, where has the sorcerer gone, the only true sorcerer of the halfcentury? How many others who would like to appear wittyare only annoying alongside him? How many who would like to appear wise seem childish compared to him?

Where is he? In his works? Really very little if we're really looking for him. More than anyone else he rearranged and hid things, omitted mention of himself. Except for a few poems and drawings there is no self-portrait of Jean, neither in LES GRANDS ECARTS, nor in LES ENFANTS TERRIBLES. Was he the young man who loved the student Dargelos? He was not THOMAS THE IMPOSTER, He imag➡ ined rather than lived the 'intrigue of his books. He often described others, but never himself except perhaps in his most beautiful collection, the summary of his thought which he so admirably called LA DIFFICULTE D'ETRE.

No one should ask me--no one should be asked--about Jean Cocteau and homosexuality. The question is sacrilegious and an odious stupidity. The extreme reserve he showed about these matters in his work was not without reason. Alongside him, Gide, Mauriac, Jouhandreau and even Julien Green are bereft of secrets, indiscreet, banal, and loquacious. They have not known how to protect the enchantment. What do we actually know of Cocteau in this regard? It has been said, perhaps justly, that his life is his masterwork. But all that can be said about the life of a writer is a rehash of hearsay. What remains is the written work and in a hundred years when the little scandal sheets have long since been forgotten, the work of Jean Cocteau will appear singularly pure. He once wrote or said, "It is necessary to know just where one can go too far." Even though he has been extremely bold in matters of art, language and symbolism, and even if he more than anyone else has popularized the mysterious without cheapening it, he always stopped short, with a sort of disgust, on the threshold of an indiscreet confession.

Where is he now? For future generations, he will be in his works. Of this there can be no doubt, since it is imme-

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