By lunchtime his sleepless pallor had taken on a faintly greenish hue, and he remained as uncommunicative as ever, though he finally felt forced, out of sheer civility, to ask the lady seated next to him what was the fish which had been placed before them. The next morning he failed to appear at breakfast, and Obaldia, when he went upstairs to see what was amiss, found him sprawled out on his bed, fully clothed, amid a welter of papers which he had spent the whole night scribbling on.
The hostess did her best to make the late arrival feel at home, but at dinner that evening he refused to touch a morsel and sat in mournful silence, his Grock-like face visibly harrowed by the prospect of the communication he was expected to deliver the following day to the assembled company of writers and critics. Seven days had already been consumed in feverish arguments, dissertations, and hairsplitting dialectics when, at the last moment, Ionesco turned up, with the furtive look of a wayward tramp, trailing behind him, as his sole piece of luggage, an implausible Tyrolean rucksack. Ionesco had been invited to the Château de Ccrisy, in Normandy, to take part in one of those pastoral reunions of intellectuals of which the French are so fond.
THERE are many stories about the strange kinship between the haphazard logic of Eugene Ionesco’s life and the studied illogic of his art, but the one I like best is told by the French writer Rene de Obaldia.
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