Just to relax, his poor tired limbs on a restful bed.
Just to relax, his aching heart on a restful bed.
For his head, above all, to be still. It goes on far too long, that head of his. And he calls it work when his head goes on like that.
And his thoughts, no, for what he calls his thoughts.
For his ideas to be still and no longer shake about in his head like seeds in a pumpkin.
Like a rattle made from an empty pumpkin.
When one sees what they are, the things he calls his ideas.
Poor creature. I do not like, God says, the man who doesn’t sleep.
The kind who burns in his bed from anxiety and fever. I am in favour, God says, of people examining their conscience, every evening.
It is a good exercise.
But then, you mustn’t torture yourself to the point of losing your sleep.
At that hour the day is done and well done; there is no doing it over again.
There is no going back on it.
Those sins which trouble you so much, my boy, well, it was very simple.
My friend, you ought not to have committed them.
At the time when you could still not commit them.
At present, it is over, go, sleep, to-morrow you will not begin them again.
But the man who goes to bed making plans for the morrow,
Is the one I do not like, God says.
The fool, does he even know what to-morrow will be like?
Does he even know what the weather will be?
He would do better to say his prayers.