Leaning comfortably on his elbows, Pierrot was thinking about the death of Louis XVI, which means, specifically, about nothing in particular; his mind contained nothing but a mental, light, and almost luminous mist, like the fog on a beautiful winter morning, nothing but a flight of anonymous midges. The cars were energetically ramming each other, the trolley wires crepitating against the metal net, women were screaming and, farther off, all over the rest of the Uni Park, there was the hubbub of the crowds enjoying themselves, the clamor of the charlatans and clowns doing their tricks, and the rumble of the machines wearing themselves out. Pierrot had no particular opinion on public morals, or the future of civilization. No one had ever told him that he was intelligent. He had frequently been told, rather, that he behaved like an idiot or that he bore some resemblance to the moon. At all events, here and now, he was happy, and content, vaguely. Besides, among the midges there was one that was bigger than the others, and more insistent. Pierrot had a job, at least for the season. In October, he’d see. For the moment, he had a third of a year ahead of him and it was already chinking with the simoleons of his pay. That was something to be happy and content about for someone who had a permanent knowledge of uncertain days, unlikely weeks, and very deficient months. His black eye hurt a little, but has physical suffering ever precluded happiness?

~ Raymond Queneau