The walls of houses, the Tansonville hedge, the trees of Roussainville wood, the bushes against which Montjouvain leaned its back, all must bear the blows of my walking-stick or umbrella, must hear my shouts of happiness, blows and shouts being indeed no more than expressions of the confused ideas which exhilarated me, and which, not being developed to the point at which they might rest exposed to the light of day, rather than submit to a slow and difficult course of elucidation, found it easier and more pleasant to drift into an immediate outlet.
Etxeetako hormek, Tansonvilleko hesiak, Roussainvilleko basoko zuhaitzek, Montjouvain datxekien sastrakek, denek jasotzen zituzten nire aterki-edo makila-ukaldiak, denek entzuten zituzten nire oihu alaiak, haiek ez baitziren izaten, batzuak zein besteak, asaldatzen nindutèn ideia nahasiak baizik, argitasunean atsedenik aurkitu gabeak, hobetsia zutelako noski, argibideratze geldo eta zaila baino, berehalako irtenbide bateranzko bidezidor erosoago baten plazera.