It was six o'clock in the morning. I was sleeping. It was a cold winter in Boston, in that October by the year 1692. The gray waves hit the Bay of Massachusetts. A servant ran up the stairs, opened the door of my bedroom without asking permission and said: "Mr. Mather, the demon attacks in the village of Salem. They urgently need your help”. Surely it was true. In January 1691 I captured a Wanabaki Indian woman who worshiped a rough stone idol in the nearby woods. "The demon will attack soon, and with a force you do not even imagine, Cotton Mather”, the unholy witch told me. A slight tremor of fear ran through my body. "I am the Hound of God. I will resist and overcome”, I answered and then I condemned the maleficent to the gallows. The sorceress's predictions were fulfilled. I dressed hurriedly, I took my Bible and got on the carriage which crossed the snowy and misty woods of Massachusetts. The coach wobbled, I feared that its axles and wheels would break.

"The wolves howl, Mr. Cotton Mather. Howwwlinnnnnng... Ahoooooooo... ", the coachman told me and wanted to imitate the sound of those beasts. I sharpened my ears. No, they did not say ahooooooo... Clearly the air transmitted a perverse echo. "Keeeziahhhhhhh Maaaasooooonnnnnnnnn... Keziahhhhhhhhhhhh... "An animal was coming through the forest, breaking trunks and breaking rocks. Suddenly a gigantic she-wolf jumped in the middle of the road. It was Keziah, his demonic tricks could not fool me. I did not fear, the Almighty God was protecting me. The terrified coachman pulled the reins and stopped the horses. I got off the carriage, I faced the infernal monster, and read the powerful Psalm 23.

​

 

 

​

​

​

Du côté de chez Swann

​

Marcel Proust

 

Longtemps, je me suis couché de bonne heure. Parfois, à peine ma bougie éteinte, mes yeux se fermaient si vite que je n'avais pas le temps de me dire : "Je m'endors." Et, une demi−heure après, la pensée qu'il était temps de chercher le sommeil m'éveillait ; je voulais poser le volume que je croyais avoir encore dans les mains et souffler ma lumière ; je n'avais pas cessé en dormant de faire des réflexions sur ce que je venais de lire, mais ces réflexions avaient pris un tour un peu particulier ; il me semblait que j'étais moi−même ce dont parlait l'ouvrage : une église, un quatuor, la rivalité de François ier et de Charles−quint. Cette croyance survivait pendant quelques secondes à mon réveil ; elle ne choquait pas ma raison, mais pesait comme des écailles sur mes yeux et les empêchait de se rendre compte que le bougeoir n'était plus allumé.