The Book of Monelle

And if every author has her secret, this may well be Schwob’s: his creativity came largely from the application of his imagination to the editing, borrowing, and rearranging of preexisting works

Lastly, he imagined three kingdoms. In the first kingdom lived all the characters of every story he had ever written, but this kingdom sank into the earth, and he awoke, alone, surounded by shadow. In the second kingdom lived his memories, those of Monelle and her dim candle, and he lived by the light of this candle in the kingdom’s rain. But Monelle left this kingdom, and he thought, in vain, that perhaps she could be found on the pages of his books. He suspected that Monelle was hiding in the third kingdom, but through the whiteness that served as its walls, he could not see, and the voice that spoke to him hushed when he asked it for the kingdom’s key. As he wrote the last words he would ever write to Louise, he saw at last that she would never be able to respond

He had taken the place of her father, and in letting her die, he had allowed her to be alone. And because she was alone, he gave her the
name Monelle.

I
pity you, I pity you, my love. Even so, I shall return to the night; for it is necessary that you lose me before you find me again. And if you find me again, I shall elude you once more. For I am she who is alone, she said again.

shall return to the night; for it is necessary that you lose me before you find me again. And if you find me again, I shall elude you once more. For I am

Schwob began to understand life as painfully transient, death as painfully permanent, and love, painfully brief;

With her death approaching, Schwob, powerless, spent his days at Louise’s bedside, living in dreadful waiting, to oversee her
passing. Still, he spoke to none of his friends of her, but retreated instead into a world of symbol and metaphor, at the center of which was Monelle

but no matter how he tried to save her from the impossibility of remaining tangible, she eluded him

But in the stories, their belief in fairy tales led them astray, for there was no place for fairy tales in the world of adults.

And the décor of Schwob’s apartment changed. Beside the book piles that formed makeshift walking alleys, one beheld a room of objects systematically miniaturized, just the sort of world she had shown to him. He loved to see certain bizarre little things on his writing table, on his mantelpiece: a little desk, as big as a thumb, with a mirror and a little puppet’s candle. At night, he would light this candle and write tales by its little
flame. The desk, the mirror, and the candle were to him the universe of Louise, and in her light, Schwob wrote.