Winter’s sadness is always impressive but banal. A cold and penetrating fog envelops objects, and children stop playing on the doorstep to shiver under the rags. But now the bell that ends the [daily] work rings in the twilight, and all the alleys that flow into the main artery overflow with the workers’ gangs. They form a crowd, take the full width of the roadway, and their footsteps [resonating] on the cobblestones remind us of the sound of the distant sea. Through the fog and darkness, the streetlights blink and are reflected in the stagnant rain puddles, but no one thinks about the [charm] of the urban landscape or even the charm of the dwelling where one finds family. They go from the same mechanical and rhythmic step to sleep, only to start their life of misery again tomorrow. Those who stop enter small cabarets that hold both the inn and the hustle and bustle.
Return from the factory
Belgium, November 20, 1939
share