And now that's enough about them. Their usefulness is over.

 

No, not yet, let them stay. They may still serve. Stay where they are, turning in a ring, launching their voices, through the hole (there must be a hole for the voices too). But is it them he hears? Are they really necessary that he may hear, they and kindred puppets? Enough concessions, to the spirit of geometry. He hears, that's all about it: he who is alone, and mute, lost in the smoke. (It is not real smoke, there is no fire. No matter.)

Strange hell that has no heating, no denizens. Perhaps it's paradise? Perhaps it's the light of paradise (and the solitude)? And this voice the voice of the blest interceding invisible, for the living, for the dead? All is possible. (It isn't the earth, that's all that counts: it can't be the earth. It can't be a hole in the earth, inhabited by Worm alone - or by others if you like, huddled in a heap like him, mute, immovable.) And this voice the voice of those who mourn them, envy them, call on them and forget them? (That would account for its incoherence.) All is possible. (Yes, so much the worse.) He knows it is a voice (how it is not known: nothing is known). He understands nothing it says (just a little, almost nothing). It's inexplicable, but it's necessary (it's preferable) that he should understand just a little, almost nothing: like a dog that always gets the same filth flung to it, the same orders, the same threats, the same cajoleries.

That settles that. The end is in sight.

But the eye: let's leave him his eye too. (It's to see with. It's to practise with, before he goes to Killarney.) What does he do with it? He does nothing with it. The eye stays open: it's an eye without lids. No need for lids here, where nothing happens, or so little. (If he could blink he might miss the odd sight.) If he could close it, the kind he is, he'd never open it again. Tears gush from it practically without ceasing. (Why is not known: nothing is known.) Whether it's with rage, or whether it's with grief, the fact is there. Perhaps it's the voice that makes it weep: with rage (or some other passion), or at having to see (from time to time) some sight or other. Perhaps that's it: perhaps he weeps in order not to see. (Though it seems difficult to credit him with an initiative of this complexity.)

 

The rascal, he's getting humanized! He's going to lose if he doesn't watch out, if he doesn't take care. And with what could he take care? With what could he form the faintest conception of the condition they are decoying him into? With their ears, their eyes, their tears and a brainpan where anything may happen? That's his strength, his only strength: that he understands nothing, can't take thought, doesn't know what they want, doesn't know they are there, feels nothing.

Ah but just a moment! He feels, he suffers: the noise makes him suffer. And he knows: he knows it's a voice. And he understands: a few expressions here and there, a few intonations. Ah it looks bad, bad.

No, perhaps not. For it's they who describe him thus. Perhaps he hears nothing, suffers nothing. And this eye? More mere imagination. He hears, true (though it's they again who say it). But this can't be denied (this is better not denied). Worm hears, that's all can be said for certain. Whereas there was a time he didn't - the same Worm, according to them. He has therefore changed. That's grave (gravid). Who knows to what lengths he may be carried? No, he can be relied on.

The eye too, of course, is there to put him to flight, make him take fright - badly enough to break his bonds. (They call them bonds!) They want to deliver him. (Ah mother of God, the things one has to listen to!) Perhaps it's tears of mirth. Well, no matter: let's drive on now to the end of the joke (we must be nearly there), and see what they have to offer him, in the way of bugaboos.

Who "we"?

Don't all speak at once! There's no sense in that either. All will come right, later on in the evening, everyone gone and silence restored. In the meantime no sense in bickering about pronouns and other parts of blather. (The subject doesn't matter: there is none.) Worm being in the singular (as it turned out), they are in the plural - to avoid confusion. (Confusion is better avoided, pending the great confounding.) Perhaps there is only one of them: one would do the trick just as well. But he might get mixed up with his victim: that would be abominable, downright masturbation.

We're getting on.

Nothing much then in the way of sights for sore eyes. But who can be sure who has not been there, has not lived there? (They call that living!) For them the spark is present, ready to burst into flame, all it needs is preaching on, to become a living torch (screams included). Then they may go silent - without having to fear an embarrassing silence (when steps are heard on graves as the saying is), genuine hell.

Decidedly this eye is hard of hearing. Noises travel, traverse walls. But may the same be said of appearances? By no means, generally speaking - but the present case is rather special. But what appearances? It is always well to try and find out what one is talking about, even at the risk of being deceived.

This grey to begin with: meant to be depressing no doubt. And yet there is yellow in it, pink too apparently. It's a nice grey, of the kind recommended as going with everything, urinous and warm. In it the eye can see (otherwise why the eye?), but dimly. (That's right: no superfluous particulars, later to be controverted.)

A man would wonder where his kingdom ended: his eye strive to penetrate the gloom, and he crave for a stick, an arm, fingers apt to grasp and then release (at the right moment) a stone, stones. Or for the power to utter a cry and wait, counting the seconds, for it to come back to him. And suffer, certainly, at having neither voice nor other missile, nor limbs submissive to him, bending and unbending at the word of command. And perhaps even regret being a man, under such conditions (that is to say a head abandoned to its ancient solitary resources). But Worm suffers only from the noise which prevents him from being what he was before. (Admit the nuance!) If it's the same Worm (and they have set their heart on it). And if it is not it makes no difference: he suffers as he has always suffered, from this noise that prevents nothing. (That must be feasible.)

 

In any case this grey can hardly be said to add to his misery: brightness would be better suited for that purpose, since he cannot close his eye. He cannot avert it either, nor lower it, nor lift it up. It remains trained on the same tiny field, a stranger forever to the boons and blessings of accommodation. But perhaps one day brightness will come (little by little, or rapidly, or in a sudden flood). And then it is hard to see how Worm could stay. And it is hard to see how he could go. But impossible situations cannot be prolonged, unduly, the fact is well known. Either they disperse, or else they turn out to be possible after all (it's only to be expected). Not to mention other possibilities.

Let there then be light: it will not necessarily be disastrous. Or let there be none: we'll manage without it.

But these lights (in the plural) which rear aloft, swell, sweep down and go out hissing, reminding one of the naja? Perhaps the moment has come to throw them into the balance and have done with this tedious equipoise, at last.

No, the moment has not yet come, to do that. Ha.

None of your hoping here, that would spoil everything. Let others hope for him (outside, in the cool, in the light) if they have a wish to. Or if they are obliged to. Or if they are paid to. (Yes, they must be paid to hope.) They hope nothing, they hope things will continue as they are. It's a soft job. Their thoughts wander as they call on Jude. It's praying they are, praying for Worm, praying to Worm, to have pity: pity on them, pity on Worm. (They call that pity! Merciful God, the things one has to put up with!) Fortunately it all means nothing to him.

Currish obscurity! To thy kennel, hell-hound!

Grey. What else?

Calm, calm. There must be something else, to go with this grey, which goes with everything. There must be something of everything here, as in every world: a little of everything.

 

Mighty little, it seems. Beside the point in any case. What balls is going on before this impotent crystalline: that's all that needs to be imagined.

A face! How encouraging that would be! If it could be a face, every now and then! Always the same, methodically varying its expression, doggedly demonstrating all a true face can do, without ever ceasing to be recognizable as such. Passing from unmixed joy to the sullen fixity of marble, via the most characteristic shades of disenchantment. How pleasant that would be! Worth ten of Saint Anthony's pig's arse! Passing by at the right distance, the right level (say once a month, that's not exorbitant) - full face and profile, like criminals. It might even pause, open its mouth, raise its eyebrows, bless its soul, stutter, mutter, howl, groan and finally shut up (the chaps clenched to cracking point - or fallen, to let the dribble out).

That would be nice! A presence at last! A visitor, faithful - with his visiting-day, his visiting-hour. Never staying too long (it would be wearisome) or too little (it would not be long enough), but just the necessary time for hope to be born, grow, languish and die. (Say five minutes.) And even should the notion of time dawn on his darkness, at this punctual image of the countenance everlasting, who could blame him? (Involving very naturally that of space: they have taken to going hand in hand, in some quarters, it's safer.) And the game would be won, lost and won. He'd be somehow suddenly among us, among the rendezvous. And people would say: "Look at old Worm, waiting for his sweetheart! And the flowers, looks at the flowers! You'd think he was asleep (you know old Worm), waiting for his love. And the daisies, look at the daisies! You'd think he was dead!" That would be worth seeing!

 

Fortunately it's all a dream. For here there is no face, nor anything resembling one: nothing to reflect the joy of living and succedeana. Nothing for it but to try something else. Some simple thing (a box, a piece of wood) to come to rest before him for an instant (once a year, once every two years). A ball, revolving one knows not how about one knows not what (about him?) every two years, every three years (frequency unimportant in the early stages), without stopping (it needn't stop): that would be better than nothing. He'd hear it approaching, hear it receding. It would be an event. He might learn to count (the minutes, the hours), to fret, be brave, have patience, lose patience, turn his head, roll his eye. A big stone, and faithful: that would be better than nothing (pending the hearts of flesh). And even should his start off (his heart that is), on its waltz, in his ear (tralatralay pom pom - again! - tralatralay pom pom, re mi re do bang bang), who could reprehend him?

Unfortunately we must stick to the facts. For what else is there (to stick to, to cling to) when all founders, but the facts (when there are any) still floating, within reach of the heart? (Happy expression that.) Of the heart crying out: "The facts are there, the facts are there." And then more calmly (when the danger is past), the continuation - namely (in the case before us): "Here there is no wood, nor any stone. Or if there is (the facts are there) it's as if there wasn't (the facts are there). No vegetables, no minerals - only Worm (kingdom unknown). Worm is there (as it were)." As it were.

But not too fast. It's too soon, to return, to where I am (empty-handed, in triumph), to where I'm waiting (calm, passably calm), knowing (thinking I know) that nothing has befallen me, nothing will befall me: nothing good, nothing bad, nothing to be the death of me, nothing to be the life of me. It would be premature. I see me, I see my place. There is nothing to show it, nothing to distinguish it, from all the other places. (They are mine, all mine, if I wish: I wish none but mine.) There is nothing to mark it (I am there so little). I see it, I feel it round me. It enfolds me, it covers me.

 

If only this voice would stop, for a second! (It would seem long to me.) A second of silence! I'd listen. I'd know if it was going to start again, or if it was stilled for ever. (What would I know it with? I'd know.) And I'd keep on listening, to try and advance in their good graces, keep my place in their favour, and be ready in case they judged fit to take me in hand again. Or I'd stop: stop listening. Is it possible that one day I shall stop listening? Without having to fear the worst, namely..... I don't know. What can be worse than this? (A woman's voice perhaps, I hadn't thought of that! They might engage a soprano!)

But let us leave these dreams and try again. If only I knew what they want! They want me to be Worm. But I was, I was: what's wrong? I was, but ill: it must be that, it can only be that. What else can it be, but that? I didn't report in the light, the light of day, in their midst, to hear them say: "Didn't we tell you you were alive and kicking?" I have endured, that must be it: I shouldn't have endured. I didn't fly from it: I should have fled, Worm should have fled. But where? How? He's riveted! Worm should have dragged himself away, no matter where - towards them, towards the azure. But how could he? He can't stir. (It needn't be bonds. There are no bonds here.) It's as if he were rooted (that's bonds if you like). The earth would have to quake. (It isn't earth, one doesn't know what it is. It's like sargasso - no, it's like molasses - no. No matter.) An eruption is what's needed, to spew him into the light.

But what calm! (Apart from the discourse.) Not a breath! It's suspicious. (The calm that precedes life? No no, not all this time.) It's like slime! Paradise, it would be paradise, but for this noise. It's life trying to get in (no, trying to get him out). Or little bubbles bursting all around. (No, there's no air here: air is to make you choke, light is to close your eyes.) That's where he must go, where it's never dark.

But here it's never dark either?

Yes, here it's dark. It's they who make this grey, with their lamps. When they go, when they go silent, it will be dark: not a sound, not a glimmer.

But they'll never go.

 

Yes, they'll go. They'll go silent perhaps and go (one day, one evening). Slowly, sadly, in Indian file, casting long shadows. Towards their master, who will punish them, or who will spare them. (What else is there, up above, for those who lose? Punishment? Pardon? So they say.)

"What have you done with your material?" "We have left it behind." But commanded to say whether (yes or no) they filled up the holes ("Have you filled up the holes, yes or no?"), they will say "yes and no" (or some "yes", others "no", at the same time), not knowing what answer the master wants, to his question. But both are defendable, both "yes" and "no". For they filled up the holes, if you like, and if you don't like they didn't. For they didn't know what to do, on departing: whether to fill up the holes or (on the contrary) leave them gaping wide. So they fixed their lamps in the holes, their long lamps (to prevent them from closing of themselves, it's like potter's clay). (Their powerful lamps, lit and trained on the within.) To make him think they are still there, notwithstanding the silence. Or to make him think the grey is natural. Or to make him go on suffering. (For he does not suffer from the noise alone, he suffers from the grey too - from the light: he must, it's preferable.) Or to make it possible for them to come back, if the master commands them to (without his knowing they have gone - as if he could know!) Or for no other reason than their ignorance of what to do: whether to fill up the holes or let them fill up of themselves.

It's like shit! There we have it at last, there it is at last! The right word! One has only to seek, seek in vain, to be sure of finding in the end. It's a question of elimination.

Enough now about holes.

 

The grey means nothing. The grey silence is not necessarily a mere lull, to be got through somehow. It may be final, or it may not. But the flames unattended will not burn on forever. On the contrary, they will go out, little by little, without attendants to charge them anew, and go silent, in the end. Then it will be black. But it is with black as it is with grey: the black proves nothing either, as to the nature of the silence which it inspissates (as it were). For they may come back, long after the lights are spent, having pleaded for years in vain before the master and failed to convince him there is nothing to be done (with Worm, for Worm). Then all will start over again, obviously. So it will never be known, Worm will never know. Let the silence be black or let it be grey, it can never be known, as long as it lasts, whether it is final, or whether it is a mere lull.

And what a lull! When he must listen, strain his ears for the murmurs of olden silences, hold himself ready for the next instalment, under pain of supplementary thunderbolts. (But Worm must not be confused with another.) Though this has no importance, as it happens. For he who has once had to listen will listen always - whether he knows he will never hear anything again, or whether he does not. In other words (they like other words, no doubt about it), silence once broken will never again be whole.

Is there then no hope? Good gracious, no! Heavens, what an idea! (Just a faint one perhaps, but which will never serve. But one forgets.)

And if there is only one he will depart alone, towards his master, and his long shadow will follow him, across the desert. (It's a desert, that's news!) Worm will see the light in a desert (the light of day, the desert day) the day they catch him. It's the same as everywhere else. (They say not: they say it's purer, clearer. Fat lot of difference that will make!) Oh it is not necessarily the Sahara, or Gobi: there are others. It's the ozone that matters, in the beginning. (Yes indeed: in the end too.) It sterilizes.

 

But this livid eye? What use is it to him? To see the light (they call that seeing, no objection), since it causes him suffering (they call that suffering). They know how to cause suffering. The master explained to them: "Do this, do that, you'll see him squirm, you'll hear him weep." He weeps, it's a fact. (Oh not a very firm one - to be made the most of quick.) As for the squirming, nothing doing. But there is always this to be said: things are only beginning (though long since begun). They will not lose heart. They'll remember the motto of William the Silent and keep on talking. That's what they're paid for, not for results.

Enough about them. They can speak of nothing else. All is theirs: but for them there would be nothing, not even Worm. (He's an idea they have, a word they use, when speaking of them.)

Enough about them. But this grey? This light? If he could escape from this light, which makes him suffer, is it not obvious it would make him suffer more and more (in whatever direction he went, since he is at the centre), and drive him back there - after forty or fifty vain excursions? No, that is not obvious. For it is obvious the light would lessen as he went towards it (they would see to that), to make him think he was on the right road and so bring him to the wall. Then the blaze, the capture and the paean. As long as he suffers there's hope (even though they need none, to make him suffer).

But how can they know he suffers? Do they see him? They say they do. But it's impossible. Hear him? Certainly not: he makes no noise (a little with his whining perhaps). In any case they are easy (rightly or wrongly) in their minds: he suffers, and thanks to them. Oh not yet sufficiently - but gently does it. An excess of severity at this stage might darken his understanding for ever.

Another thing. (The problem is delicate.) The dulling effect of habit, how do they deal with that? They can combat it of course: raising the voice, increasing the light. But suppose, instead of suffering less, as time flies, he continues to suffer as much, precisely, as the first day? (That must be possible.) And but suppose, instead of suffering less than the first day (or no less), he suffers more and more, as time flies? And the metamorphosis is accomplished, of unchanging future into unchanging past.

Eh?

Another thing, but of a different order. (The affair is thorny.) Is not a uniform suffering preferable to one which, by its ups and downs, is liable at certain moments to encourage the view that perhaps after all it is not eternal? That must depend on the object pursued. Namely?

A little fit of impatience, on the part of the patient.

Thank you. That is the immediate object. Afterwards there will be others. Afterwards he'll be given lessons in keeping quiet. But for the moment let him toss and turn at least, roll on the ground, damn it all - since there's no other remedy. Anything at all, to relieve the monotony, damn it all. Look at the burnt alive: they don't have to be told (when not lashed to the stake) to rush about in every direction, without method, crackling, in search of a little cool. There are even those whose sang-froid is such that they throw themselves out of the window. No one asks him to go to those lengths - but simply to discover (without further assistance from without) the alleviations of flight from self. (That's all: he won't go far, he needn't go far.) Simply to find within himself a palliative for what he is (through no fault of his own). Simply to imitate the hussar who gets up on a chair the better to adjust the plume of his busby. It's the least he might do. No one asks him to think, simply to suffer - always in the same way, without hope of diminution, without hope of dissolution. It's no more complicated than that: no need to think in order to despair.

Agreed then on monotony: it's more stimulating. But how can it be ensured? No matter, no matter how. They are doing the best they can, with the miserable means at their disposal: a voice, a little light. (Poor devils, that's what they're paid for.) They say: "No sign of hardening, no sign of softening, impossible to say. No matter, it's a good average - we have only to continue. One day he'll understand, one day he'll thrill: the little spasm will come, a change in the eye, and cast him up among us."

To be on the watch and never sight, to listen for the moan that never comes: that's not a life worth living either. And yet it's theirs. "He is there," says the master, "somewhere. Do as I tell you, bring him before me: he's lacking to my glory."

But one last effort, one more. (That's the spirit, that's the way - each time as if it were the last: the only way not to lose ground.) A great gulp of stinking air and off we go (we'll be back in a second). Forward! (That's soon said.) But where is forward? And why?

The dirty pack of fake maniacs! They know I don't know. They know I forget all they say as fast as they say it.

These little pauses are a poor trick too. When they go silent, so do I a second later (I'm a second behind them). I remember a second, for the space of a second - that is to say long enough to blurt it out, as received, while receiving the next (which is none of my business either). Not an instant I can call my own and they want me to know where next to turn! Ah I know what I'd know, and where I'd turn, if I had a head that worked! Let them tell me again what I'm doing, if they want me to look as if I were doing it.

This tone, these words! To make me think they come from me! Always the same old dodges, ever since they took it into their heads that my existence is only a question of time.

I think I must have blackouts: whole sentences lost. (No, not whole.) Perhaps I've missed the key-word to the whole business. I wouldn't have understood it, but I would have said it - that's all that's required. It would have spoken in my favour, next time they judge me. (Well well, so they judge me from time to time! They neglect nothing! Perhaps one day I'll know (say?) what I'm guilty of.)

How many of us are there altogether, finally? And who is holding forth at the moment? And to whom? And about what? These are futile teasers. Let them put into my mouth at last the words that will save me, damn me - and no more talk about it, no more talk about anything. But this is my punishment, that's what they judge me for. I expiate vilely, like a pig: dumb, uncomprehending, possessed of no utterance but theirs.

 

They'll clap me in a dungeon. I'm in a dungeon, I've always been in a dungeon. I hear everything, every word they say. It's the only sound (as if I were speaking, to myself, out loud). In the end you don't know any more (a voice that never stops) where it's coming from. Perhaps there are others here, with me. (It's dark, very properly: it is not necessarily an oubliette for one.) Or one other. Perhaps I have a companion in misfortune, given to talking (or condemned to talk): you know, any old thing, out loud, without ceasing. But I think not. What do I think not? That I have a companion in misfortune, that's it. That would surprise me.

I must doze off from time to time, with open eyes. And yet nothing changes, ever. Gaps, there have always been gaps. It's the voice stopping? It's the voice failing to carry me? What can it matter? (Perhaps it's important? The result is the same - one perhaps that doesn't count, exceptionally.)

They shut me up here, now they're trying to get me out, to shut me up somewhere else - or to let me go. (They are capable of putting me out just to see what I'd do.) Standing with their backs to the door, their arms folded, their legs crossed, they would observe me. Or all they did was to find me here, on their arrival (or long afterwards). They are not interested in me, only in the place. They want the place for one of their own. (What can one do but speculate, speculate? Until one hits on the happy speculation.)

When all goes silent, and comes to an end, it will be because the words have been said, those it behoved to say. (No need to know which, no means of knowing which.) They'll be there somewhere, in the heap, in the torrent (not necessarily the last). They have to be ratified by the proper authority: that takes time, he's far from here. They bring him the verbatim report of the proceedings, once in a way. (He knows the words that count: it's he who chose them.) In the meantime the voice continues (while the messenger goes towards the master, and while the master examines the report, and while the messenger comes back with the verdict). The words continue (the wrong words) until the order arrives (to stop everything or to continue everything). (No, superfluous: everything will continue automatically, until the order arrives, to stop everything.) Perhaps they are somewhere there, the words that count, in what has just been said: the words it behoved to say. (They need not be more than a few.)

They say "they" (speaking of them) to make me think it is I who am speaking. Or I say "they" (speaking of God knows what) to make me think it is not I who am speaking. Or rather there is silence, from the moment the messenger departs until he returns with his orders. (Namely: "Continue.") For there are long silences from time to time, truces. And then I hear them whispering (some perhaps whispering): "It's over, this time we've hit the mark." And others: "We'll have to go through it all again, in other words (or in the same words, arranged differently)."

Respite then, once in a way (if one can call that respite), when one waits to know one's fate, saying "Perhaps it's not that at all", and saying "Where do these words come from that pour out of my mouth, and what do they mean?" No: saying nothing - for the words don't carry any more. (If one can call that waiting, when there's no reason for it.) And one listens (that stet) without reason, as one has always listened - because one day listening began, because it cannot stop. (That's not a reason.)

If one can call that respite.

But what's all this about not being able to die, live, be born? That must have some bearing. All this about staying where you are, dying, living, being born, unable to go forwards or back, not knowing where you came from, or where you are, or where you're going, or that it's possible to be elsewhere, to be otherwise? Supposing nothing, asking yourself nothing? You can't, you're there. (You don't know who, you don't know where.) The thing stays where it is, nothing changes (within it, outside it), apparently. (Apparently!) And there is nothing for it but to wait for the end, nothing but for the end to come. And at the end all will be the same, at the end at last perhaps all the same as before - as all that livelong time when there was nothing for it but to get to the end, or fly from it, or await for it (trembling or not, resigned or not): the nuisance of doing over, and of being. (Same thing, for one who could never do, never be.)

 

Ah if only this voice could stop! This meaningless voice which prevents you from being nothing, just barely prevents you from being nothing and nowhere - just enough to keep alight this little yellow flame feebly darting from side to side, panting, as if straining to tear itself from its wick. It should never have been fed, or it should have been put out. (Put out? it should have been let go out.) Regretting: that's what helps you on, that's what gets you on towards the end of the world. Regretting what is, regretting what was. (It's not the same thing? Yes, it's the same.) You don't know, what's happening, what's happened. (Perhaps it's the same, the same regrets.) That's what transports you, towards the end of regretting.

But a little animation now for pity's sake! (It's now or never.) A little spirit! It won't produce anything? Not a budge? That doesn't matter: we are not tradesmen. And one never knows, does one? No. Perhaps Mahood will emerge from his urn and make his way towards Montmartre, on his belly, singing "I come, I come, my heart's delight". Or Worm, good old Worm! Perhaps he won't be able to bear any more, of not being able, of not being able to bear any more (it would be a pity to miss that). If I were they I'd set the rats on him (water-rats, sewer-rats, they're the best). (Oh not too many - a dozen to a dozen and a half.) That might help him make up his mind, to get going. And what an introduction, to his future attributes! (No, it would be in vain. A rat wouldn't survive there, not one second.)

But let's have another squint at his eye, that's the place to look. A little raw perhaps, the white, with all the pissing. There's a gleam at last (one hesitates to say of intelligence). Apart from that the same as ever. A trifle more prominent perhaps, more paraphimotically globose. It seems to listen. It's weakening (that's unavoidable), glazing: it's high time to offer it something to bring it clean out of its socket. (In ten years it will be too late.)

 

The mistake they make of course is to speak of him as if he really existed, in a specific place - whereas the whole thing is no more than a project for the moment. But let them blunder on to the end of their folly, then they can go into the question again (taking care not to compromise themselves by the use of terms, if not of notions, accessible to the understanding). In the same way the case of Mahood has been insufficiently studied. One may experience the need of such creatures (assuming they are twain) - and even the presentiment of their possible reality - without all these blind and surly disquisitions. A little more reflection would have shown them that the hour to speak, far from having struck, might never strike. But they are compelled to speak. It is forbidden them to stop.

Why not then speak of something else? Something the existence of which seems in a certain measure already established? On the subject of which one may chatter away without blushing purple every thirty or forty thousand words at having to employ such locutions. And which moreover (supreme guarantee) has caused the glibbest tongues to wag from time immemorial? It would be preferable. It's the old story: they want to be entertained, while doing their dirty work. (No, not entertained, soothed. No, that's not it either. Solaced? No, even less. No matter.) With the result they achieve nothing: neither what they want (without knowing exactly what), nor the obscure infamy to which they are committed. The old story.

You wouldn't think it was the same gang as a moment ago, would you? What can you expect? They don't know who they are either, nor where they are, nor what they're doing, nor why everything is going so badly, so abominably badly - that must be it. So they build up hypotheses that collapse on top of one another (it's human, a lobster couldn't do it). Ah a nice mess we're in, the whole pack of us! Is it possible we're all in the same boat? No, we're in a nice mess each one in his own peculiar way. I myself have been scandalously bungled, they must be beginning to realize it. I on whom all dangles. Better still: about whom (much better) all turns, dizzily. Yes yes, don't protest: all spins.

It's a head, I'm in a head! What an illumination! (Ssst! Pissed on out of hand.)

 

Ah this blind voice! And these moments of held breath when all listen wildly! And the voice that begins to fumble again, without knowing what it's looking for. And again the tiny silence, and the listening again. For what? No one knows. A sign of life perhaps? A sign of life escaping someone (and bound to be denied if it came)? That's it surely. If only all that could stop, there'd be peace. No, too good to be believed. The listening would go on: for the voice to begin again, for a sign of life, for someone to betray himself (or for something else, anything). What else can there be but signs of life? The fall of a pin? The stirring of a leaf? Or the little cry that frogs give when the scythe slices them in half, or when they are spiked, in their pools, with a spear? One could multiply the examples: it would even be an excellent idea. But there it is, one can't. Perhaps it would be better to be blind: the blind hear better. (Full of general knowledge we are this evening. We have even piano-tuners up our sleeve: they strike A and hear G, two minutes later.)

There's nothing to be seen in any case. This eye is an oversight.

But this isn't Worm speaking. (True, so far - who denies it? It would be premature.) Nor I, for that matter. And Mahood is notoriously aphonic. But the question is not there, for the moment. (No one knows where it is, but it is not there, for the time being.)

Ah yes, there's great fun to be had from an eye. It weeps for the least little thing: a yes, a no. The yesses make it weep, the noes too. (The perhapses particularly.) With the result that the grounds for these staggering pronouncements do not always receive the attention they deserve. Mahood, too (I mean Worm - no, Mahood), Mahood too is a great weeper (in case it hasn't been mentioned). His beard is soaking with the muck, it's quite ridiculous - especially as it doesn't relieve him in the slightest. (What could it possibly relieve him of? The poor brute is as cold as a fish, incapable even of cursing his creator: it's purely mechanical.)

 

But it's time Mahood was forgotten. (He should never have been mentioned.) No doubt. But is it possible to forget him? It is true one forgets everything. And yet it is to be greatly feared that Mahood will never let himself be completely resorbed. Worm yes: Worm will vanish utterly, as if he had never been - which indeed is probably the case. (As if one could vanish utterly without having been at some previous stage!) That's soon said. But Mahood too for that matter? (It's not clear - tut tut, it's not clear at all.) No matter. Mahood will stay where he was put, stuck up to his skull in his vase, opposite the shambles, beseeching the passers-by (without a word, or a gesture, or any play of his features - they don't play) to perceive him ostensibly (concomitantly with the day's dish, or independently). For reasons unknown. Perhaps in the hope of being proven in the swim (that is to say guaranteed to sink, sooner or later). That must be it. (Such notions may be entertained, without any process of thought.)

I myself am exceptionally given to the tear. I should have preferred this kept dark: in their position I should have omitted this detail. The truth being I have no vent at my disposal, neither the aforesaid nor those less noble. (How can one enjoy good health under such conditions?)

And what is one to believe?

That is not the point, to believe this or that: the point is to guess right, nothing more. They say: "If it's not white it's very likely black." It must be admitted the method lacks subtlety, in view of the intermediate shades all equally worthy of a chance. The time they waste repeating the same thing, when they must know pertinently it is not the right one! (Recriminations easily rebutted, if they chose to take the trouble - and had the leisure - to reflect on their inanity.)

 

But how can you think and speak at the same time? How can you think about what you have said, may say, are saying - and at the same time go on with the last-mentioned? You think about any old thing, more or less, in a daze of baseless unanswerable self-reproach. That's why they always repeat the same thing, the same old litany, the one they know by heart: to try and think of something different, of how to say something different from the same old thing (always the same wrong thing said always wrong). They can find nothing, nothing else to say but the thing that prevents them from finding. They'd do better to think of what they're saying, in order at least to vary its presentation: that's what matters.

But how can you think and speak at the same time (without a special gift)? Your thoughts wander, your words too - far apart. (No, that's an exaggeration: apart.) Between them would be the place to be: where you suffer, rejoice (at being bereft of speech, bereft of thought), and feel nothing, hear nothing, know nothing, say nothing, are nothing. That would be a blessed place to be: where you are.

It's a lucky thing they are there (meaning anywhere) to bear the responsibility of this state of affairs: with respect to which if one does not know a great deal one knows at least this, that one would not care to have it on one's conscience. (To have it on one's stomach is enough.) Yes, I'm a lucky man to have them, these voluble shades. I'll be sorry when they go (for I won't have them always, not at this rate - they'll make me believe I've piped up before they're done with me).

The master in any case: we don't intend (listen to them hedging), we don't intend (unless absolutely driven to it) to make the mistake of inquiring into him. He'd turn out to be a mere high official, we'd end up by needing God. (We have lost all sense of decency admittedly, but there are still certain depths we prefer not to sink to.) Let us keep to the family circle, it's more intimate. We all know one another now, no surprises to be feared. The will has been opened: nothing for anybody.

 

This eye. Curious how this eye invites inspection, demands sympathy, solicits attention, implores assistance. To do what? It's not clear. To stop weeping, have a quick look round? Goggle an instant and close forever? It's it you see and it alone. It's from it you set out to look for a face, to it you return having found nothing, nothing worth having - nothing but a kind of ashen smear. Perhaps it's long grey hair, hanging in a tangle round the mouth, greasy with ancient tears. Or the fringe of a mantle spread like a veil. Or fingers opening and closing to try and shut out the world. Or all together: fingers, hair and rags, mingled inextricably.

Suppositions all equally vain: it's enough to enounce them to regret having spoken (familiar torment). (A different past? It's often to be wished - different from yours, when you find out what it was). He is hairless and naked and his hands (laid flat on his knees once and for all) are in no danger of ever getting into mischief. And the face?

Balls, all balls. I don't believe in the eye either. There's nothing here, nothing to see, nothing to see with. (Merciful coincidence, when you think what it would be: a world without spectator, and vice versa. Brrr!) No spectator then. And better still no spectacle - good riddance! If this noise would stop there'd be nothing more to say.

I wonder what the chat is about at the moment? Worm presumably (Mahood being abandoned). And I await my turn. Yes indeed, I do not despair (all things considered) of drawing their attention to my case, some fine day. Not that it offers the least interest. (Hey, something wrong there! "Not that it is particularly interesting"? I'll accept that.) But it's my turn. I too have the right to be shown impossible.

 

This will never end, there's no sense in fooling oneself.

Yes it will, they'll come round to it. After me it will be the end. They'll give up, saying: "It's all a bubble, we've been told a lot of lies, he's been told a lot of lies." (Who he? The master.) By whom? No one knows. The everlasting third party: he's the one to blame, for this state of affairs. The master's not to blame, neither are they, neither am I (least of all I). We were foolish to accuse one another (the master me, them, himself; they me, the master, themselves: I them, the master, myself). We are all innocent, enough. Innocent of what? No one knows. Of wanting to know, wanting to be able? Of all this noise about nothing? Of this long sin against the silence that enfolds us? We won't ask any more, what it covers, this innocence we have fallen to. It covers everything: all faults, all questions. It puts an end to questions.

Then it will be over. Thanks to me all will be over. And they'll depart, one by one. Or they'll drop (they'll let themselves drop) where they stand, and never move again, thanks to me (who could understand nothing, of all they deemed it their duty to tell me to do). And upon us all the silence will fall again, and settle, like dust of sand, on the arena, after the massacres. (Bewitching prospect if ever there was one.)

They are beginning to come round to my opinion. (After all it's possible I have one.) They make me say "if only this, if only that" - but the idea is theirs. (No, the idea is not theirs either.) As far as I personally am concerned there is every likelihood of my being incapable of ever desiring or deploring anything whatsoever. For it would seem difficult for someone (if I may so describe myself) to aspire towards a situation of which (notwithstanding the enthusiastic descriptions lavished on him) he has not the remotest idea. Or to desire with a straight face the cessation of that other (equally unintelligible) assigned to him in the beginning and never modified.

This silence they are always talking about? From which supposedly he came, to which he will return when his act is over? He doesn't know what it is. Nor what he is meant to do, in order to deserve it.

 

That's the bright boy of the class speaking now. He's the one always called to the rescue when things go badly. He talks all the time of merit and situations (he has saved more than one). Of suffering too: he knows how to stimulate the flagging spirit, stop the rot, with the simple use of this mighty word alone. Even if he has to add, a moment later: "But what suffering?" - since he has always suffered. Which rather damps the rejoicings. But he soon makes up for it, he puts all to rights again, invoking the celebrated notions of quantity, habit-formation, wear and tear, and others too numerous for him to mention: and which he is thus in a position, in the next belch, to declare inapplicable to the case before him (for there is no end to his wits).

But (see above) have they not already bent over me till black and blue in the face? Nay, have they ever done anything else during the past..... ? (No, no dates for pity's sake.)

And another question: What am I doing in Mahood's story, and in Worm's? Or rather what are they doing in mine?

There are some irons in the fire to be going on with: let them melt.

Oh I know, I know (attention please, this may mean something), I know, there's nothing new there. It's all part of the same old irresistible baloney, namely: "But my dear man, come, be reasonable. Look, this is you, look at this photograph. And here's your file: no convictions, I assure you. Come now, make an effort! At your age, to have no identity! It's a scandal, I assure you. Look at this photograph. What, you see nothing? True for you? No matter. Here, look at this death's-head: you'll see, you'll be all right, it won't last long. Here, look, here's the record: insults to policemen, indecent exposure, sins against the holy ghost, contempt of court, impertinence to superiors, impudence to inferiors, deviations from reason. Without battery - look, no battery! It's nothing. You'll be all right, you'll see."

 

"I beg your pardon? Does he work? Good God no, out of the question! Look, here's the medical report: spasmodic tabes, painless ulcers (I repeat, painless, all is painless), multiple softenings, manifold hardenings, insensitive to blows, sight failing, chronic gripes, light diet, shit well tolerated, hearing failing, heart irregular, sweet-tempered, smell failing, heavy sleeper, no erections. Would you like some more? Commission in the territorials. Inoperable, untransportable. Look, here's the face (no, no, the other end). I assure you, it's a bargain. I beg your pardon? Does he drink? Good God yes, passionately! I beg your pardon? Father and mother? Both dead, at seven months interval: he at the conception, she at the nativity. I assure you, you won't do better, at your age. No human shape? The pity of it! Look, here's the photograph."

("You'll see, you'll be all right. What does it amount to after all? A painful moment, on the surface, then peace, underneath. It's the only way, believe me, the only way out.")

"I beg your pardon? Have I nothing else? Why certainly, certainly - just a second. Curious you should mention it. I was wondering myself (just a second) if you were not rather..... (just a second, here we are, this one here)….. but I wanted to be sure. (What, you don't understand? Neither do I. No matter.) It's no time for levity."

("Yes, I was right, no doubt about it this time - it's you all over.")

"Look, here's the photograph, take a look at that: dying on his feet. You'd better hurry, it's a bargain, I assure you."

And so on, till I'm tempted.

 

No: all lies. (They know it well, I never understood.) I haven't stirred. All I've said (said I've done, said I've been), it's they who said it. I've said nothing, I haven't stirred. They don't understand: I can't stir. They think I don't want to, that their conditions don't suit me - that they'll hit on others, in the end, to my liking, then I'll stir, I'll be in the bag. That's how I see it. (I see nothing.) They don't understand: I can't go to them, they'll have to come and get me, if they want me. Mahood won't get me out, nor Worm either. They set great store on Worm, to coax me out - he was something new, different from all the others (meant to be, perhaps he was - to me they're all the same). They don't understand: I can't stir. I'm all right here, I'd be all right here, if they'd leave me. Let them come and get me, if they want me. They'll find nothing. Then they can depart, with an easy mind.

And if there is only one? Like me? He can depart without fear of remorse (having done all he could - and even more - to achieve the impossible and so lost his life). Or stay with me here (he might do that) and be a like for me: that would be lovely! My first like, that would be epoch-making! To know I had a like, a congenor! He wouldn't have to be like me: he couldn't but be like me, he need only relax. He might believe what he pleased, at the outset: that he was in hell, or that the place was charming. He might even exclaim: "I'll never stir again." (Being used to announcing his decisions, at the top of his voice, so as to get to know them better.) He might even add, to cover all risks: "For the moment." (It would be his last howler.) He need only relax, he'd disappear (he'd know nothing either). There we'd be the two of us: unbeknown to ourselves, unbeknown to each other.

That's a darling dream I've been having! A broth of a dream! And it's not over. For here comes another, to see what has happened to his pal, and get him out, and back to his right mind, and back to his kin (with a flow of threats and promises, and tales like this of wombs and cribs, diapers bepissed and the first long trousers, love's young dream and life's old lech, blood and tears and skin and bones and the tossing in the grave). And so coax him out, as he me (that's right, pidgin bullskrit). And in the end, having lived his life (no, before, but you've got my meaning).....And there we are the three of us (it's cosier).

 

Perpetual dream! You have merely to sleep, not even that.

It's like the old jingle: "A dog crawled into the kitchen and stole a crust of bread, then cook up with I've forgotten what and walloped him till he was dead." Second verse: "Then all the dogs came crawling and dug the dog a tomb and wrote upon the tombstone for dogs and bitches to come." Third verse, as the first. Fourth, as the second. Fifth, as the third. Give us time, give us time and we'll be a multitude: a thousand, ten thousand - there's no lack of room. Adeste, adeste, all ye living bastards. You'll be all right, you'll see, you'll never be born again. (What am I saying? You'll never have been born.) And bring your brats: our hell will be heaven to them, after what you've done to them.

But come to think of it are we not already a goodly company? What right have I to flatter myself I'm the first? (First in time I mean of course.)

There we have a few more questions. Please God they don't take the fancy to answer them!

What can they be hatching anyhow, at this eleventh hour? Can it be they are resolved at last to seize me by the horns? Looks like it. In that case tableau any minute: "Oyez, oyez!" (I was like them, before being like me? Oh the swine - that's one I won't get over in a hurry. No matter, no matter.) The charge is sounded. Present arms, corpse! To your guns, spermatozoon! I too, weary of pleading an incomprehensible cause (at six and eight the thousand flowers of rhetoric), let myself drop among the contumacious. (Nice image that! Telescoping space! It must be the Pulitzer Prize.)

 

They want to bore me to sleep (at long range for fear I might defend myself). They want to catch me alive, so as to be able to kill me. Thus I shall have lived. They think I'm alive - what a business! (Were there but a cadaver it would smack of body-snatching.) Not in a womb either: the slut has yet to menstruate capable of whelping me. That should singularly narrow the field of research. A sperm dying (of cold) in the sheets, feebly wagging its little tail? Perhaps I'm a drying sperm, in the sheets of an innocent boy (even that takes time). No stone must be left unturned. One mustn't be afraid of making a howler: how can one know it is one before it's made? And one it most certainly is, now that it's irrevocable: for the good reason (here's another, here comes another, unless it escapes them in time - what a hope, the bright boy is here!) - for the excellent reason that counts as living too, counts as murder (it's notorious). Ah you can't deny it, some people are lucky: born of a wet dream and dead before morning. I must say I'm tempted. (No, the testis has yet to descend that would want any truck with me (it's mutual). Another gleam down the drain.)

And now one last look at Mahood, at Worm. We'll never have another chance.

Ah will they never learn sense? There's nothing to be got, there was never anything to be got from those stories. I have mine, somewhere. Let them tell it to me: they'll see there's nothing to be got from it either, nothing to be got from me. It will be the end, of this hell of stories. You'd think I was cursing them (always the same old trick, you'd be sorry for them). Perhaps I'll curse them yet: they'll know what it is to be a subject of conversation. I'll impute words to them you wouldn't throw to a dog. An ear, a mouth and in the middle a few rags of mind. I'll get my own back. (A few flitters of mind, they'll see what it's like.) I'll clap an eye at random in the thick of the mess, on the off chance something might stray in front of it. Then I'll let down my trousers and shit stories on them: stories, photographs, records, sites, lights, gods and fellow-creatures, the daily round and common task. Observing all the while: "Be born, dear friends, be born. Enter my arse. You'll just love my colic pains. It won't take long, I've the bloody flux." They'll see what it's like, that it's not so easy as it looks: that you must have a taste for it, that you must be born alive, that it's not something you can acquire. That will teach them perhaps, to keep their nose out of my business.

Yes, if I could. But I can't (whatever it is). I can't any more. There was perhaps a time I could - in the days when I was bursting my guts (as per instructions) to bring back to the fold the dear lost lamb. (I'd been told he was dear: that he was dear to me, that I was dear to him, that we were dear to each other.) All my life I've pelted him with twaddle, the dear departed - wondering what he could possibly be like, wondering where we could possibly have met. "All my life?" Well, almost. (Damn the "almost": all my life, until I joined him.) And now it's I am dear to them, now it's they are dear to me (glad to hear it). They'll join us, one by one. (What a pity they are numberless! So are we.) Dear charnelhouse of renegades! (This evening decidedly everything is dear. No matter: the ancients hear nothing.)

And my old quarry, there beside me? For him it's all over. (Beside me? How are you? Underneath me! We're piled up in heaps.) (No, that won't work either - no matter, it's a detail.) For him it's all over (him the second-last). And for me too (me the last) it will soon be all over. I'll hear nothing more. I've nothing to do, simply wait. It's a slow business. He'll come and lie on top of me, lie beside me, my dear tormentor: his turn to suffer what he made me suffer, mine to be at peace.

How all comes right in the end to be sure! It's thanks to patience, thanks to time. It's thanks to the earth that revolves that the earth revolves no more, that time ends its meal and pain comes to an end. You have only to wait, without doing anything (it's no good doing anything) and without understanding (there's no help in understanding), and all comes right.

Nothing comes right, nothing, nothing. This will never end, this voice will never stop. I'm alone here, the first and the last. I never made anyone suffer, I never stopped anyone's sufferings: no one will ever stop mine. They'll never depart, I'll never stir. I'll never know peace. Neither will they - but with this difference, that they don't want it. They say they don't want it, they say I don't want it.

Don't want peace? After all perhaps they're right. How could I want it? What is it?

 

They say I suffer (perhaps they're right) and that I'd feel better if I did this, said that: if my body stirred, if my head understood, if they went silent and departed. Perhaps they're right. How would I know about these things? How would I understand what they're talking about? I'll never stir, never speak. They'll never go silent, never depart. They'll never catch me, never stop trying. That's that.

I'm listening. Well I prefer that, I must say I prefer that.

That what?

Oh you know!

Who you? Oh I suppose the audience. Well well, so there's an audience - it's a public show! You buy your seat and you wait. (Perhaps it's free, a free show.) You take your seat and you wait for it to begin. (Or perhaps it's compulsory, a compulsory show: you wait for the compulsory show to begin.) It takes time.

You hear a voice, perhaps it's a recitation. That's the show, someone reciting: selected passages, old favourites - a poetry matinee. Or someone improvising (you can hardly hear him). That's the show. You can't leave, you're afraid to leave, it might be worse elsewhere. You make the best of it, you try and be reasonable: you came too early (here we'd need Latin), it's only beginning.

It hasn't begun! He's only preluding, clearing his throat, alone in his dressing-room. He'll appear any moment, he'll begin any moment. Or it's the stage-manager, giving his instructions, his last recommendations, before the curtain rises. That's the show: waiting for the show (to the sound of a murmur). You try and be reasonable: perhaps it's not a voice at all. Perhaps it's the air - ascending, descending, flowing, eddying, seeking exit, finding none.

 

And the spectators? Where are they?

You didn't notice, in the anguish of waiting, never noticed you were waiting alone. That's the show: waiting alone, in the restless air, for it to begin, for something to begin, for there to be something else but you. For the power to rise, the courage to leave. You try and be reasonable: perhaps you are blind, probably deaf. The show is over, all is over? But where then is the hand, the helping hand? (Or merely charitable? Or the hired hand?) It's a long time coming, to take yours and draw you away. That's the show (free, gratis and for nothing): waiting alone, blind, deaf. You don't know where, you don't know for what: for a hand to come and draw you away, somewhere else (where perhaps it's worse).

And now for the it: I prefer that, I must say I prefer that. (What a memory, real fly-paper!) I don't know - I don't prefer it any more, that's all I know. So why bother about it, a thing you don't prefer? Just think of that, bothering about that! Perish the thought! One must wait, discover a preference, within one's bosom. Then it will be time enough to institute an inquiry.

Moreover (that's right, link, link, you never know), moreover their attitude toward me has not changed. I am deceived, they are deceived. They have tried to deceive me, saying their attitude towards me had changed. But they haven't deceived me: I didn't understand what they were trying to do to me. I say what I'm told to say, that's all there is to it.

And yet I wonder..... I don't know. I don't feel a mouth on me, I don't feel the jostle of words in my mouth. And when you say a poem you like (if you happen to like poetry) - in the underground, or in bed, for yourself - the words are there, somewhere, without the least sound. I don't feel that either. Words falling, you don't know where, you don't know whence? Drops of silence through the silence? I don't feel it. I don't feel a mouth on me, nor a head.

Do I feel an ear? Frankly now, do I feel an ear?

Well frankly now I don't. So much the worse: I don't feel an ear either.

This is awful. Make an effort: I must feel something.

Yes, I feel something (they say I feel something). I don't know what it is, I don't know what I feel. "Tell me what I feel and I'll tell you who I am." They'll tell me who I am, and I'll have heard (without an ear I'll have heard). And I'll have said it (without a mouth I'll have said it). I'll have said it inside me, then in the same breath outside me. Perhaps that's what I feel: an outside and an inside and me in the middle. Perhaps that's what I am: the thing that divides the world in two - on the one side the outside, on the other the inside. (That can be as thin as foil.) I'm neither one side nor the other, I'm in the middle. I'm the partition. I've two surfaces and no thickness. Perhaps that's what I feel: myself vibrating. I'm the tympanum. On the one hand the mind, on the other the world: I don't belong to either. It's not to me they're talking, it's not of me they're talking.

No, that's not it, I feel nothing of all that. Try something else, herd of shites! Say something else, for me to hear (I don't know how), for me to say (I don't know how). What clowns they are, to keep on saying the same thing when they know it's not the right one! No, they know nothing either. They forget. They think they change and they never change. They'll be there saying the same thing till they die. Then perhaps a little silence, till the next gang arrives on the site. (I alone am immortal. What can you expect? I can't get born.)

Perhaps that's their big idea: to keep on saying the same old thing, generation after generation, till I go mad and begin to scream. Then they'll say: "He's mewled, he'll rattle - it's mathematical. Let's get out to hell out of here, no point in waiting for that. Others need us. For him it's over, his troubles will be over. He's saved, we've saved him. They're all the same - they all let themselves be saved, they all let themselves be born. He was a tough nut. He'll have a good time, a brilliant career - in fury and remorse. He'll never forgive himself."

And so depart, thus communing (in Indian file, or two by two), along the seashore (now it's the seashore), on the shingle, along the sands, in the evening air (it's evening). That's all I know: evening, shadows. Somewhere, anywhere. On the earth.

 

Go mad?

Yes, but there it is. (What would I go mad with?)

And evening isn't sure either, it needn't be evening. Dawn too bestows long shadows (on all that is still standing). That's all that matters: only the shadows matter, with no life of their own, no shape and no respite. Perhaps it's dawn, evening of night. It doesn't matter.

And so depart, towards my brethren (no, none of that, no brethren: that's right, take it back, they don't know). They depart, not knowing whither, towards their master (it's possible, make a note of that, it's just possible), to sue for their freedom. For them it's the end, for me the beginning: my end begins. They stop to listen to my screams. (They'll never stop again? Yes, they'll stop: my screams will stop, from time to time. I'll stop screaming, to listen and hear if anyone is answering, to look and see if anyone is coming. Then go, close my eyes and go, screaming, to scream elsewhere.)

Yes: my mouth. But there it is. I won't open it.

I have no mouth? And what about it? I'll grow one. A little hole at first, then wider and wider, deeper and deeper. The air will gush into me (and out a second later, howling). But is it not rather too much to ask, to ask so much, of so little? Is it really politic? And would it not suffice (without any change in the structure of the thing as it now stands, as it always stood, without a mouth being opened at the place which even pain could never line) - would it not to suffice to....

To what?

 

The thread is lost. No matter, here's another: would not a little stir suffice, some tiny subsidence or upheaval, that would start things off? The whole fabric would be infected, the ball would start a-rolling, the disturbance would spread to every part. Locomotion itself would soon appear, trips properly so called: business trips, pleasure trips, research expeditions, sabbatical leaves, jaunts and rambles, honeymoons at home and abroad and long sad solitary tramps in the rain (I indicate the main trends), athletics, tossing in bed, physical jerks, locomotor ataxy, death throes, rigor and rigor mortis, emergal of the bony structure. (That should suffice.)

Unfortunately it's a question of words, of voices (one must not forget that, one must try and not forget that completely), of a statement to be made (by them, by me).

Some slight obscurity there.

It might sometimes almost be wondered if all their ballocks about life and death is not as foreign to their nature as it is to mine. The fact is they no longer know where they've got to in their affair, where they've got me to. (I never knew, I'm where I always was, wherever that is.) And "their affair"? I don't know what is meant by that: some process no doubt, that I've got stuck in, or haven't yet come to. I've got nowhere, in their affair, that's what galls them: they want me there somewhere, anywhere.

If only they'd stop committing reason (on them, on me, on the purpose to be achieved), and simply go on - with no illusion about having begun one day or ever being able to conclude. But it's too difficult, too difficult, for one bereft of purpose, not to look forward to his end, and (bereft of all reason to exist) back to a time he did not. Difficult too not to forget, in your thirst for something to do (in order to be done with it, and have that much less to do), that there is nothing to be done: nothing special to be done, nothing doable to be done. No point either, in your thirst, your hunger. (No, no need of hunger, thirst is enough.) No point in telling yourself stories, to pass the time: stories don't pass the time, nothing passes the time. (That doesn't matter, that's how it is.) You tell yourself stories, then any old thing, saying: "No more stories from this day forth." And the stories go on: it's stories still.

Or it was never stories: always any old thing, for as long as you can remember (no, longer than that). Any old thing, the same old thing, to pass the time (then, as time didn't pass, for no reason at all), in your thirst. Trying to cease and never ceasing, seeking the cause (the cause of talking and never ceasing). Finding the cause, losing it again, finding it again, not finding it again. Seeking no longer, seeking again, finding again, losing again. Talking without ceasing, thirstier than ever. Seeking as usual, losing as usual. Blathering away. Wondering what it's all about. Seeking what it can be you are seeking. Exclaiming "Ah yes!", sighing "No no!", crying "Enough!", ejaculating "Not yet!" Talking incessantly (any old thing). Seeking once more (any old thing). Thirsting away, you don't know what for. Ah yes: something to do! (No, no: nothing to be done.)

And now enough of that. Unless perhaps (that's an idea!)..... let's seek over there! One last little effort!

Seek what?

Pertinent objection: let us try and determine, before we seek, what it can be, before we seek over there. (Over where?)

Talking unceasingly, seeking incessantly. In yourself, outside yourself. Cursing man, cursing God. Stopping cursing. Past bearing it, going on bearing it. Seeking indefatigably (in the world of nature, the world of man). Where is nature? Where is man? Where are you? What are you seeking? Who is seeking? Seeking who you are (supreme aberration), where you are, what you're doing, what you've done to them, what they've done to you. Prattling along: "Where are the others?" "Who is talking? Not I." "Where am I? Where is the place where I've always been?"

Where are the others? It's they are talking, talking to me. I hear them, I'm mute. What do they want? What have I done to them? What have I done to God? What have they done to God? What has God done to us? Nothing. And we've done nothing to him. You can't do anything to him, he can't do anything to us. We're innocent, he's innocent, it's nobody's fault. (What's nobody's fault? This state of affairs. What state of affairs?) So it is, so be it (don't fret), so it will be. (How so?) Rattling on, dying of thirst, seeking determinedly what they want.

They want me to be, this, that: to howl, stir, crawl out of here, be born, die, listen.

I'm listening.

It's not enough. I must understand.

I stop doing my best, I can't do my best. I can't go on, poor devil. Neither can they. Let them say what they want: give me something to do, something doable to do, poor devils. They can't, they don't know. They're like me, more and more. No more need of them, no more need of anyone. No one can do anything. It's I am talking, thirsting, starving (let it stand), in the ice and in the furnace.

You feel nothing? Strange! You don't feel a mouth on you? You don't feel your mouth any more?

No need of a mouth: the words are everywhere, inside me, outside me. (Well, well! A minute ago I had no thickness!) I hear them? No need to hear them, no need of a head. Impossible to stop them, impossible to stop. I'm in words, made of words, others' words. (What others?) The place too - the air, the walls, the floor, the ceiling: all words. The whole world is here with me. I'm the air, the walls, the walled-in one. Everything yields, opens, ebbs, flows. Like flakes. I'm all these flakes, meeting, mingling, falling asunder. Wherever I go I find me, leave me, go towards me, come from me: nothing ever but me, a particle of me, retrieved, lost, gone astray. I'm all these words, all these strangers: this dust of words (with no ground for their settling, no sky for their dispersing) coming together to say (fleeing one another to say) that I am they, all of them: those that merge, those that part, those that never meet. And nothing else.

Yes, something else: that I'm something quite different, a quite different thing. A wordless thing in an empty place, a hard shut dry cold black place, where nothing stirs, nothing speaks. And that I listen, and that I seek. Like a caged beast born of caged beasts born of caged beasts born of caged beasts born in a cage and dead in a cage, born and then dead, born in a cage and then dead in a cage. In a word like a beast (in one of their words), like such a beast. And that I seek, like such a beast, with my little strength: such a beast, with nothing of its species left but fear and fury.

 

No, the fury is past. Nothing but fear. Nothing of all its due but fear centupled. Fear of its shadow? No: blind from birth. Of sound then? If you like, we'll have that - one must have something (it's a pity, but there it is). Fear of sound, fear of sounds: the sounds of beasts, the sounds of men, sounds in the daytime and sounds at night (that's enough). Fear of sounds, all sounds (more or less). More or less fear.

All sounds? There's only one: continuous, day and night. What is it? It's steps coming and going. It's voices speaking for a moment. It's bodies groping their way. It's the air, it's things, it's the air among the things (that's enough), that I seek. Like it? No, not like it: like me. In my own way.

What am I saying (after my fashion)? That I seek. What do I seek now? What it is (it must be that, it can only be that): what it is, what it can be. What what can be? What I seek - no, what I hear (now it comes back to me, all back to me). They say I seek what it is I hear (I hear them, now it comes back to me): what it can possibly be, and where it can possibly come from (since all is silent here, and the walls thick). And how I manage, without feeling an ear on me (or a head, or a body, or a soul) - how I manage...... to do what? How I manage.....

[It's not clear? Dear dear! You say it's not clear? Something is wanting to make it clear? I'll seek, what is wanting, to make everything clear. (I'm always seeking something, it's tiring in the end - and it's only the beginning.)]

.....how I manage, under such conditions, to do what I'm doing. What am I doing? I must find out what I'm doing. "Tell me what you're doing and I'll ask you how it's possible."

 

I hear, you say I hear. And that I seek (it's a lie, I seek nothing - nothing any more: no matter, let's leave it, no harking), and that I seek. (Listen to them now, jogging my memory!) Seek what? Firstly what it is. Secondly where it comes from. Thirdly how I manage, to do it (seeing that this, considering that that, inasmuch as God knows what - that's clear now): how I manage to hear, and how I manage to understand (it's a lie - what would I understand with, that's what I am asking?), how I manage to understand. Oh not the half, not the hundredth, nor the five thousandth (let us go on dividing by fifty), nor the quarter millionth (that's enough): but a little nevertheless - it's essential, it's preferable. (It's a pity, but there it is.) Just a little all the same, the least possible. It's appreciable, it's enough: the rough meaning of one expression in a thousand, in ten thousand (let us go on multiplying by ten, nothing more restful than arithmetic), in a hundred thousand, in a million.

It's too much, too little. We've gone wrong somewhere. No matter: there is no great difference here between one expression and the next. When you've grasped one you've grasped them all. (I am not in that fortunate position.) All! How you exaggerate! Always out for the whole hog, the all of all and the all of nothing - never in the happy golden. "Never", "always" - it's too much, too little: "often", "seldom".

Let me now sum up (after this digression).

There is I (yes, I feel it, I confess, I give in): there is I, it's essential (it's preferable). I wouldn't have said so, I won't always say so. So let me hasten to take advantage of being now obliged to say (in a manner of speaking) that there is I, on the one hand, and this noise on the other. That I never doubted. (No, let us be logical: there was never any doubt about that.) This noise, on the other (if it is the other): that will very likely be the theme of our next deliberation.

 

I sum up. (Now that I'm here it's I will do the summing up, it's I will say what is to be said and then say what it was. That will be jolly!) I sum up: I and this noise. I see nothing else for the moment, but I have only just taken over my functions. I and this noise. (And what about it? Don't interrupt me, I am doing my best.) I repeat: I and this noise. On the subject of which (inverting the natural order) we would seem to know for certain, among other things, what follows: namely, on the one hand (with regard to the noise), that it has not been possible up to date to determine with certainty, or even approximately, what it is, in the way of noise - or how it comes to me, or by what organ it is emitted, or by what perceived, or by what intelligence apprehended (in its main drift). And on the other, that is to say with regard to me (this is going to take a little longer) - with regard to me (nice time we're going to have now) - with regard to me, that it has not yet been our good fortune to establish with any degree of accuracy what I am, where I am: whether I am words among words, or silence in the midst of silence (to recall only two of the hypotheses launched in this connection). (Though silence to tell the truth does not appear to have been very conspicuous up to now. But appearances may sometimes be deceptive.) I resume: not yet our good fortune to establish, among other things, what I am (no, sorry - already mentioned), what I'm doing, how I manage to hear (if I hear, if it's I who hear), and how to understand (ellipse when possible, it saves time) - how to understand (same observation), and how it happens (if it's I who speak - and it may be assumed it is, as it may be suspected it is not), how it happens (if it's I who speak) that I speak without ceasing, that I long to cease, that I can't cease (I indicate the principal divisions: it's more synoptic). I resume: not the good fortune to establish, with regard to me (if it's I who seek), what exactly it is I seek, find, lose, find again, throw away, seek again, find again, throw away again (no, I never threw anything away, never threw anything away of all the things I found, never found anything that I didn't lose, never lost anything that I mightn't as well have thrown away); if it's I who seek, find, lose, find again, lose again, seek in vain, seek no more: if it's I, what it is (and if it's not I, who it is, and what it is).

 

I see nothing else for the moment.

Yes, I do.

I conclude: not the good fortune to establish, considering the futility of my telling myself even any old thing, to pass the time, why I do it (if it's I who do it).

As if reasons were required for doing any old thing to pass the time! No matter, the question may be asked (off the record): why time doesn't pass, doesn't pass, from you? Why it piles up all about you, instant on instant, on all sides, deeper and deeper, thicker and thicker? (Your time, others' time, the time of the ancient dead and the dead yet unborn.) Why it buries you grain by grain neither dead nor alive? With no memory of anything, no hope of anything, no knowledge of anything, no history and no prospects, buried under the seconds, saying any old thing, your mouth full of sand. Oh I know it's immaterial: time is one thing, I another. But the question may be asked, why time doesn't pass? (Just like that, off the record, en passant - to pass the time.)

I think that's all, for the moment. I see nothing else (I see nothing whatever), for the time being.

But I really mustn't ask myself any more questions (if it's I), I really must not.

 

More resolutions, while we're at it. (That's right: resolutely, more resolutions.) Make abundant use of the principle of parsimony, as if it were familiar to me (it is not too late). Assume notably henceforward that the thing said and the thing heard have a common source (resisting for this purpose the temptation to call in question the possibility of assuming anything whatever). Situate this source in me (without specifying where exactly, no finicking): anything is preferable to the consciousness of third parties and (more generally speaking) of an outer world. Carry if necessary this process of compression to the point of abandoning all other postulates than that of a deaf half-wit, hearing nothing of what he says and understanding even less.. Evoke at painful junctures (when discouragement threatens to raise its head) the image of a vast cretinous mouth (red, blubber and slobbering) in solitary confinement, extruding indefatigably (with a noise of wet kisses and washing in a tub) the words that obstruct it. Set aside once and for all (at the same time as the analogy with orthodox damnation) all idea of beginning and end. Overcome (that goes without saying) the fatal leaning towards expressiveness. Equate me (without pity or scruple) with him who exists (somehow, no matter how, no finicking), with him whose story this story had the brief ambition to be. Better: ascribe to me a body. Better still: arrogate to me a mind. Speak of a world of my own (sometimes referred to as the inner) without choking. Doubt no more. Seek no more. Take advantage of the brand-new soul and substantiality to abandon, with the only possible abandon, deep down within. And finally (these and other decisions having been taken) carry on cheerfully as before.

Something has changed nevertheless. Not a word about Mahood, or Worm, for the past..... Ah yes, I nearly forgot: speak of time, without flinching. And what is more, it just occurs to me (by a natural association of ideas), treat of space with the same easy grace. As if it were not bunged up on all sides, a few inches away. After all that's something - a few inches - to be thankful for. It gives one air: room for the tongue to loll, to have lolled, to loll on.

 

When I think (that is to say..... no, let it stand), when I think of the time I've wasted with these bran-dips (beginning with Murphy, who wasn't even the first), when I had me on the premises, within easy reach! Tottering under my own skin and bones (real ones), rotting with solitude and neglect, till I doubted my own existence. And even still, today, I have no faith in it, none: so that I have to say, when I speak, "Who speaks?" - and seek. And so on and similarly for all the other things that happen to me and for which someone must be found (for things that happen must have someone to happen to). Someone must stop them. But Murphy and the others (and last but not least the two old buffers here present) could not stop them, the things that happened to me. Nothing could happen to them, of the things that happened to me. And nothing else either: there is nothing else (let us be lucid for once), nothing else but what happens to me (such as speaking, and such as seeking), and which cannot happen to me - which prowl round me, like bodies in torment: the torment of no abode, no repose. No, like hyenas, screeching and laughing (no, no better - no matter). I've shut my doors against them, I'm not at home to anything, my doors are shut against them. Perhaps that's how I'll find silence, and peace at last: by opening my doors, and letting myself be devoured. They'll stop howling, they'll start eating, the maws now howling. "Open up, open up! You'll be all right, you'll see!"

What a joy it is, to turn and look astern, between two visits to the depths! Scan in vain the horizon for a sail! It's a real pleasure, upon my word it is, to be unable to drown, under such conditions. Yes, but there it is: I am far from my doors, far from my walls. Someone would have to wake the turnkey (there must be one somewhere).

Far from my subject too. Let us get back to it.

It's gone! No longer there where I thought I last saw it!

[Strange this mixture of solid and liquid.]

Where was I? Ah yes, my subject: no longer there, or no longer the same. Or I mistake the place?

 

No?

Yes?

It's the same, still there, in the same place. It's a pity. I would have liked to lose it, I would have liked to lose me: lose me the way I could long ago (when I still had some imagination) - close my eyes and be in a wood, or on the seashore. Or in a town where I don't know anyone. It's night, everyone has gone home. I walk the streets, I lash into them one after the other. It's the town of my youth. I'm looking for my mother to kill her. (I should have thought of that a bit earlier, before being born.) It's raining, I'm all right. I stride along on the crown of the street with great yaws to left and right.

Now that's all over: with closed eyes I see the same as with them open, namely.....

Wait: I'll say it, I'll try and say it. I'm curious to know what it can possibly be that I see (with closed eyes, with open eyes).

Nothing. I see nothing.

Well that is a disappointment! I was hoping for something better than that.

Is that what it is to be unable to lose yourself? (I'm asking myself a question). Is that what it is: to see nothing, no matter where I look? Nor, eyeless, the little creature in his different guises: coming and going (now in shadow, now in light, doing his best, seeking the means of staying among the living, of getting off with his life), or shut up looking out of the window at the ever-changing sky. Is that it, to be unable to lose myself? I don't know. What did I see in the old days, when I ventured a quick look? I don't know, I don't remember. There I am in any case equipped with eyes, which I open and shut (two, perhaps blue), knowing it avails nothing. (For I have a head now too, where all manner of things are known.)

 

Can it be of me I'm speaking? Is it possible? Of course not: that's another thing I know. I'll speak of me when I speak no more. In any case it's not a question of speaking of me, but of speaking, of speaking no more.

This slight confusion augurs well.

Now I'll have to find a name for this latest surrogate, his head splitting with vile certainties and his doll's eyes.

Later on, later on. First I must describe him in greater detail, see what he's capable of, whence he comes and whither he returns (in his head of course - we don't intend to relapse into picaresque, with the stink of Mahood and Worm still in our nostrils).

Now it's I the orator. The beleaguerers have departed. I am master on board (after the rats). I no longer crawl between the thwarts, under the moon, in the shadow of the lash.

Strange this mixture of solid and liquid! A little air is all we need to complete the elements. (No, I'm forgetting fire.) Unusual hell when you come to think of it. Perhaps it's paradise. Perhaps it's the earth. Perhaps it's the shores of a lake beneath the earth. You scarcely breathe, but you breathe (it's not certain). You see nothing. (Hear nothing? You hear the long kiss of dead water and mud.) Aloft at less than a score of fathoms men come and go. You dream of them: in your long dream there's a place for the waking. You wonder how you know all you know. You even see grass - grass at dawn, glaucous with dew: not so blind as all that my eyes. (They're not mine, mine are done. They don't even weep any more, they open and shut by the force of habit - fifteen minutes exposure, fifteen minutes shutter, like the owl cooped in the grotto in Battersea Park.)

Ah misery! Will I never stop wanting a life for myself?

No no, no head either: anything you like, but not a head. In his head he doesn't go anywhere either, I've tried. (Lashed to the stake, blindfold, gagged to the gullet, you take the air - under the elms in se, murmuring Shelley - impervious to the shafts.)

Yes a head - but solid: solid bone. And you imbedded in it, like a fossil in the rock. Perhaps there go I after all. I can't go on in any case. But I must go on. So I'll go on. Air! Air, I'll seek air: air in time, the air of time. And in space, in my head. That's how I'll go on.

All very fine - but the voice is failing. It's the first time. No, I've been through that: it has even stopped, many a time. That's how it will end again. I'll go silent, for want of air, then the voice will come back and I'll begin again. (‘My voice’? ‘The voice’?) I hardly hear it any more.

I'm going silent. Hearing this voice no more, that's what I call going silent. That is to say I'll hear it still, if I listen hard. I'll listen hard. (Listening hard, that's what I call going silent.) I'll hear it still, broken, faint, unintelligible, if I listen hard. (Hearing it still, without hearing what it says, that's what I call going silent.) Then it will flare up, like a kindling fire, a dying fire (Mahood explained that to me), and I'll emerge from silence. (Hearing too little to be able to speak, that's my silence.) That is to say I never stop speaking - but sometimes too low, too far away, too far within, to hear. (No, I hear: to understand. Not that I ever understand).

It fades. It goes in, behind the door. I'm going silent, there's going to be silence. I'll listen, it's worse than speaking (no: no worse, no better). Unless this time it's the true silence, the one I'll never have to break any more, when I won't have to listen any more, when I can dribble in my corner, my head gone, my tongue dead. The one I have tried to earn, that I thought I could earn.

I'm going to stop - that's to say I'm going to look as if I had (it will be like everything else). As if anyone were looking at me! As if it were I! It will be the same silence, the same as ever, murmurous with muted lamentation: panting and exhaling of impossible sorrow, like distant laughter. And brief spells of hush, as of one buried before his time. Long or short, the same silence. Then I resurrect and begin again. That's what I'll have got for my pains.

 

Unless this time it's the real silence at last! Perhaps I've said the thing that had to be said (that gives me the right to be done with speech, done with listening, done with hearing) without my knowing it. I'm listening already, I'm going silent. The next time I won't go to such pains: I'll tell one of Mahood's old tales (no matter which, they are all alike). They won't tire me. I won't bother any more about me. I'll know that no matter what I say the result is the same: that I'll never be silent, never at peace.

Unless I try once more (just once more, one last time), to say what has to be said, about me (I feel it's about me, perhaps that's the mistake I make, perhaps that's my sin), so as to have nothing more to say, nothing more to hear, till I die. It's coming back. I'm glad. I'll try again. Quick before it goes again!

Try what? I don't know. To continue?

Now there is no one left. (That's a good continuation.) No one left? It's embarrassing. If I had a memory it might tell me that this is a sign of the end: this having no one left, no one to talk to, no one to talk to you, so that you have to say: "It's I who am doing this to me, I who am talking about me." Then the breath fails, the end begins, you go silent. It's the end (short-lived). You begin again. You had forgotten: there's someone there, someone talking to you (about you, about him). Then a second, then a third. Then the second again. Then all three together (these figures just to give you an idea), talking to you (about you, about them). All I have to do is listen. Then they depart, one by one, and the voice goes on. It's not theirs: they were never there. There was never anyone but you, talking to you about you. The breath fails, it's nearly the end. The breath stops, it's the end (short-lived). I hear someone calling me, it begins again. (That must be how it goes, if I had a memory.)

Even if there were things, a thing somewhere, a scrap of nature, to talk about, you might be reconciled to having no one left, to being yourself the talker. If only there were a thing somewhere, to talk about (even though you couldn't see it, or know what it was, simply feel it there, with you), you might have the courage not to go silent.

 

No, it's to go silent that you need courage: for you'll be punished, punished for having gone silent. And yet you can't do otherwise than go silent (than be punished for having gone silent, than be punished for having been punished) since you begin again. The breath fails.

If only there were a thing! But there it is, there is not: they took away things when they departed, they took away nature. There was never anyone, anyone but me, anything but me, talking to me of me. Impossible to stop, impossible to go on. But I must go on - without anyone, without anything, but me, but my voice. That is to say I'll stop, I'll end. It's the end already (short-lived).

What is it? A little hole. You go down into it, into the silence (it's worse than the noise). You listen, it's worse than talking (no, not worse: no worse). You wait, in anguish. Have they forgotten me?

No?

Yes?

No. Someone calls me. I crawl out again.

What is it? A little hole, in the wilderness.

It's the end that is the worst. No, it's the beginning that is the worst - then the middle, then the end. In the end it's the end that is the worst, this voice that....I don't know. It's every second that is the worst, it's a chronicle. The seconds pass, one after another - jerkily, no flow. (They don't pass, they arrive, bang bang - they bang into you, bounce off, fall and never move again.) When you have nothing left to say you talk of time, seconds of time. There are some people add them together to make a life, I can't: each one is the first. (No, the second, or the third. I'm three seconds old!) Oh not every day of the week.

 

I've been away, done something, been in a hole. I've just crawled out. Perhaps I went silent.

No, I say that in order to say something, in order to go on a little more: you must go on a little more, you must go on a long time more, you must go on evermore. If I could remember something by heart I'd be saved: I have to keep on saying the same thing and each time it's an effort. The seconds must be alike and each one is infernal.

What am I saying now?

I'm saying I wish I knew.

And yet I have memories. I remember Worm (that is to say, I have retained the name). And the other (what is his name? what was his name?) in his jar. I can see him still, better than I can see me. I know how he lived, now I remember. I alone saw him. But no one sees me, nor him: I don't see him any more. (Mahood, he was called Mahood.) I don't see him any more, I don't know how he lived any more, he isn't there any more, he was never there, in his jar, I never saw him. And yet I remember. I remember having talked about him. (I must have talked about him. The same words recur and they are your memories.) It is I invented him (him and so many others, and the places where they passed, the places where they stayed), in order to speak (since I had to speak) without speaking of me. I couldn't speak of me, I was never told I had to speak of me. I invented my memories, not knowing what I was doing: not one is of me. It is they asked me to speak of them. They wanted to know what they were, how they lived. That suited me (I thought that would suit me), since I had nothing to say and had to say something.

I thought I was free to say any old thing, so long as I didn't go silent. Then I said to myself that after all perhaps it wasn't any old thing, the thing I was saying: that it might well be the thing demanded of me (assuming something was being demanded of me).

 

No, I didn't think anything and I didn't say anything to myself. I did what I could, a thing beyond my strength, and often for exhaustion I gave up doing it. And yet it went on being done, the voice being heard - the voice which could not be mine (since I had none left), and yet which could only be mine (since I could not go silent, and since I was alone, in a place where no voice could reach me). Yes, in my life (since we must call it so) there were three things: the inability to speak, the inability to be silent, and solitude. That's what I've had to make the best of.

Yes, now I can speak of my life: I'm too tired for niceties. But I don't know if I ever lived, I have really no opinion on the subject. However that may be I think I'll soon go silent for good, in spite of its being prohibited. Then (yes, phut! just like that, just like one of the living), then I'll be dead, I think I'll soon be dead. I hope I find it a change.

I should have liked to go silent first. There were moments I thought that would be my reward for having spoken so long and so valiantly: to enter living into silence. So as to be able to enjoy it? No, I don't know why. So as to feel myself silent? One with all this quiet air shattered unceasingly by my voice alone? (No, it's not real air.) I can't say it. I can't say why I should have liked to be silent a little before being dead. So as in the end to be a little as I always was and never could be? Without fear of worse to come peacefully in the place where I always was and could never rest in peace? No, I don't know. It's simpler than that. I wanted myself, in my own land for a brief space. I didn't want to die a stranger in the midst of strangers (a stranger in my own midst), surrounded by invaders.

No, I don't know what I wanted, I don't know what I thought. I must have wanted so many things, imagined so many things, while I was talking, without knowing exactly what - enough to go blind, with longings and visions, mingling and merging in one another. I'd have been better employed minding what I was saying. But it didn't happen like that, it happened like this, the way it's happening now, that is to say..... I don't know: you mustn't believe what I'm saying. I'm doing as I always did, I'm going on as best I can. As to believing I shall go silent for good and all: I don't believe it particularly. I always believed it, as I always believed I would never go silent. You can't call that believing. (It's my walls.)

But has nothing really changed, all this time?

If instead of having something to say I had something to do, with my hands or feet - some little job! Sorting things out for example, or simply arranging things. Suppose for the sake of argument I had the job of moving things from one place to another. Then I'd know where I was, and how far I had got.

No, not necessarily (I can see it from here). They would contrive things in such a way that I couldn't suspect the two vessels (the one to be emptied and the one to be filled) of being in reality one and the same. It would be water. Water. With my thimble I'd go and draw it from one container, and then I'd go and pour it into another. Or there would be four (or a hundred), half of them to be filled, the other half to be emptied (numbered: the even to be emptied the uneven to be filled). No, it would be even more complicated, less symmetrical. No matter: to be emptied, and filled, in a certain way, a certain order, in accordance with certain homologies (the word is not too strong) - so that I'd have to think.Tanks, communicating (communicating!), connected by pipes under the floor (I can see it from here). Always showing the same level? No, that wouldn't work, too hopeless: they'd arrange for me to have little attacks of hope from time to time (yes, pipes and taps - I can see it from here), so that I might fool myself from time to time.

If I had that to do, instead of this! Some little job with fluids, filling and emptying (always the same vesssel). I'd be good at that, it would be a better life than this. (No, I mustn't start complaining.) I'd have a body. I wouldn't have to speak. I'd hear my steps, almost without ceasing, and the noise of the water, and the crying of the air trapped in the pipes. (I don't understand.) I'd have bouts of zeal. I'd say to myself: "The quicker I do it the quicker it will be done." (The things one has to listen to!) That's where hope would come in.

 

It wouldn't be dark? Impossible to do such work in the dark? That depends. Yes, I must say I see no window, from here. Whereas here that has no importance, that I see no window. Here I needn't come and go (fortunately: I couldn't). Nor be dextrous. For naturally the water would have great value and the least drop spilt on the way (or in the act of drawing, or in the act of pouring) would cost me dear. And how could you tell in the dark, if a drop.....

What's this story?

It's a story! Now I've told another little story, about me - about the life that might have been mine for all the difference it would have made. Which was perhaps mine: perhaps I went through that before being deemed worthy of going through this. Who knows towards what high destiny I am heading? (Unless I am coming from it.) But once again the fable must be of another. I see him so well, coming and going among his casks, trying to stop his hand from trembling, dropping his thimble, listening to it bouncing and rolling on the floor, scraping round for it with his foot, going down on his knees, going down on his belly, crawling.

It stops there.

It must have been I. But I never saw myself, so it can't have been I. I don't know: how can I recognize myself who never made my acquaintance? It stops there, that's all I know. I don't see him any more, I'll never see him again..... Yes I will: now he's there with the others. (I won't name them again: you say that for something to say - you say anything for something to say.) Some do this, others do that. He does as I said (I don't remember). He'll come back, to keep me company. (Only the wicked are solitary.) I'll see him again. (It's his fault - his fault for wanting to know what he was like, and how he lived). Or he'll never come back: it's one or the other. They don't all come back. I mean there must be some I have only seen once. Up to now? Very true: it's only beginning. I feel the end at hand and the beginning likewise. (To every man his orbit, that's obvious.)

 

But (and here I return to the charge), but has nothing really changed, all this mortal time? (I'm speaking now of me: yes, henceforward I shall speak of none but me, that's decided, even though I should not succeed. There's no reason why I should succeed, so I need have no qualms.) Nothing changed? I must be ageing all the same. (Bah, I was always aged, always ageing, and ageing makes no difference. Not to mention that all this is not about me.)

Hell, I've contradicted myself! No matter, so long as one does not know what one is saying and can't stop to enquire, in tranquillity (fortunately, fortunately). One would like to stop, but unconditionally, (I resume), so long as..... let me see..... so long as one, so long as he.....

Ah fuck all that: so long as this, then that. Agreed? That's good enough. (I nearly got stuck.)

Help, help!

If I could only describe this place - I who am so good at describing places! Walls, ceiling, floors, they are my speciality. Doors! Windows! What haven't I imagined in the way of windows in the course of my career! Some opened on the sea - all you could see was sea and sky. If I could put myself in a room, that would be the end of the wordy-gurdy. Even doorless, even windowless - nothing but the four surfaces (the six surfaces). If I could shut myself up! It would be a mine, it could be black dark. I could be motionless and fixed. I'd find a way to explore it: I'd listen to the echo. I'd get to know it, I'd get to remember it. I'd be home. I'd say what it's like, in my home, instead of any old thing.

This place! If I could describe this place! Portray it!

I've tried. I feel no place, no place round me. There's no end to me. I don't know what it is: it isn't flesh, it doesn't end. It's like air, now I have it (you say that, to say something - you won't say it long): like gas. (Balls, balls.) The place, then we'll see. First the place, then I'll find me in it: a solid lump, in the middle (or in a corner, well propped upon three sides).

 

The place! If only I could feel a place for me! (I've tried. I'll try again.) None was ever mine. That sea under my window (higher than the window)! And the rowboat, do you remember? And the river, and the bay! (I knew I had memories - pity they are not of me.) And the stars, and the beacons, and the lights of the buoys, and the mountain burning! It was the time nothing was too good for me. (The others benefited by it, they died like flies.) Or the forest! (A roof is not indispensable, an interior.) If I could be in a forest, caught in a thicket - or wandering round in circles! It would be the end of this blither. I'd describe the leaves, one by one: at the moment of their growing, at the moment of their giving shade, at the moment of their falling.

Those are good moments, for one who has not to say "But it's not I, it's not I. Where am I, what am I doing?" all the time (as if that mattered). But there it is, that takes the heart out of you, your heart isn't in it any more (your heart that was, among the brambles, cradled by the shadows). You try the sea, you try the town. You look for yourself in the mountains and the plains - it's only natural. You want yourself, you want yourself in your own little corner. It's not love, not curiosity: it's because you're tired. You want to stop, travel no more, seek no more, lie no more, speak no more, close your eyes (but your own): in a word lay hands on yourself. After that you'll make short work of it.

I notice one thing: the others have vanished, completely. I don't like it. (Notice? I notice nothing.)

I go on as best I can. (If it begins to mean something I can't help it.)

I have passed by here (this has passed me by) thousands of times: its turn has come again. It will pass on and something else will be there, another instant of my old instant. (There it is: the old meaning that I'll give myself, that I won't be able to give myself.)

There's a god for the damned, as on the first day: today is the first day, it begins. I know it well. (I'll remember it as I go along.) All adown it I'll be born and born, births for nothing - and come to night without having been.

Look at this Tunis pink! It's dawn!

If I could only shut myself up! Quick, I'll shut myself up (it won't be I). Quick, I'll make a place. It won't be mine, it doesn't matter. (I don't feel any place for me, perhaps that will come.) I'll make it mine. I'll put myself in it. I'll put someone in it. I'll find someone in it, I'll put myself in him, I'll say he's I. Perhaps he'll keep me. Perhaps the place will keep us: me inside the other, the place all round us. It will be over, all over. I won't have to try and move any more. I'll close my eyes. All I'll have to do is talk. That will be easy: I'll have things to say, about me, about my life (I'll make it a good one). I'll know who's talking, and about what. I'll know where I am.

Perhaps I'll be able to go silent. Perhaps that's all they're waiting for (there they are again), to pardon me - waiting for me to reach home, to pardon me. (It's the lie they refuse to stop.) I'll close my eyes, be happy at last: that's the way it is this morning. Morning, I call that morning? That's right (shilly-shally a little longer), I call that morning: I haven't many words. I haven't much choice, I don't choose: the word came. (I should have avoided this bright stain.) It's the dayspring - but it doesn't last, I know it. (I call that the dayspring! If you could only see it!)

I'm off! (You wouldn't think so.) Perhaps it's my last gallop. I smell the stable. (I always smelt the stable, it's I smell of the stable: there's no stable but me, for me.)

No, I won't do it.

What won't I do? (As if that depended on me!)

I won't seek my home any more. (I don't know what I'll do.) It would be occupied already: there would be someone there already, someone far gone. He wouldn't want me (I can understand him). I'd disturb him.

 

What am I going to say now? I'm going to ask myself, I'm going to ask questions: that's a good stop-gap. (Not that I'm in any danger of stopping. Then why all this fuss?) That's right, questions: I know millions, I must know millions. And then there are plans. When questions fail there are always plans: you say what you'll say and what you won't say (that doesn't commit you to anything), and the evil moment passes, it stops stone dead. Suddenly you hear yourself talking about God knows what as if you had done nothing else all your life (and neither have you). You come back from a far place, back to life. That's where you should be, where you are: far from here, far from everything.

If only I could go there! If only I could describe it! (I who am so good at topography.) That's right, aspirations: when plans fail there are always aspirations. It's a knack, you must say it slowly: "If only this, if only that." That gives you time, time for a cud of longing to rise up in the back of your gullet. Nothing remains but to look as if you enjoyed chewing it.

There's no knowing where that may lead you, on tracks as beaten as the day is long. Often you pass yourself by (someone passes himself by). If only you knew! (That's right, aspirations!) You turn and look behind you, so does the other. You weep for him, he weeps for you - it's screamingly sad. (Anything rather than laughter.) What else? Opinions? Comparisons? (Anything rather than laughter.) All helps, can't help helping, to get you over the pretty pass. (The things you have to listen to! What pretty pass?)

It's not I speaking, it's not I hearing: let us not go into that. Let us go on as if I were the only one in the world (whereas I'm the only one absent from it). Or with others: what difference does it make - others present, others absent? They are not obliged to make themselves manifest. All that is needed is to wander and let wander, be this slow boundless whirlwind and every particle of its dust. (It's impossible.)

Someone speaks, someone hears: no need to go any further. It is not he, it's I. (Or another, or others - what does it matter?) The case is clear: it is not he, he who I know I am (that's all I know), who I cannot say I am. (I can't say anything - I've tried, I'm trying.) He knows nothing, knows of nothing: neither what it is to speak, nor what it is to hear.

To know nothing, to be capable of nothing, and to have to try! You don't try any more, no need to try: it goes on by itself, it drags on by itself, from word to word, a labouring whirl. You are in it somewhere, everywhere. Not he.

If only I could forget him! Have one second of this noise that carries me away, without having to say (I don't, I haven't time): "It's not I. I am he."

After all, why not? Why not say it? (I must have said it.) As well that as anything else. "It's not I, not I." I can't say it. (It came like that, it comes like that.) "It's not I."

If only it could be about him! If only it could come about him! (I'd deny him, with pleasure, if that could help.) It's I, here it's I. Speak to me of him, let me speak of him! That's all I ask. (I never asked for anything.) Make me speak of him!

What a mess!

Now there is no one left. Long may it last! In the end it comes to that, to the survival of that alone.

Then the words come back. Someone says "I", unbelieving.

If only I could make an effort, an effort of attention, to try and discover what's happening to me! (What then? I don't know, I've forgotten my apodosis.) But I can't, I don't hear any more, I'm sleeping (they call that sleeping). (There they are again, we'll have to start killing them again.) I hear this horrible noise (coming back takes time), I don't know where from. I was nearly there, I was nearly sleeping (I call that sleeping).

 

There is no one but me. (Here I mean: elsewhere is another matter. I was never elsewhere, here is my only elsewhere.) It's I who do this thing and I who suffer it, it's not possible otherwise (it's not possible so). It's not my fault, all I can say is that it's not my fault. It's not anyone's fault: since there isn't anyone it can't be anyone's fault, since there isn't anyone but me it can't be mine. Sometimes you'd think I was reasoning, I've no objection. They must have taught me reasoning too - they must have begun teaching me, before they deserted me. I don't remember that period, but it must have marked me. I don't remember having been deserted, perhaps I received a shock.

Strange, these phrases that die for no reason. Strange.

What's strange about it? Here all is strange, all is strange when you come to think of it. (No, it's coming to think of it that is strange.)

Am I to suppose I am inhabited? I can't suppose anything: I have to go on, that's what I'm doing, let others suppose. There must be others in other elsewheres, each one saying to himself (when the moment cames, the moment to say it): "Let others suppose." And so on, so on: let others do this, others do that, if there are any. That helps you on, that helps you forward: I believe in progress. I know how to believe too, they must have taught me believing too! (No, no one ever taught me anything, I never learnt anything. I've always been here, here there was never anyone but me.)

"Never", "always", "me", "no one": old slush to be churned everlastingly. (Now it's slush, a minute ago it was dust. It must have rained.)

 

He must have travelled, he whose voice it is, he must have seen, with his eyes, a man or two, a thing or two, been aloft, in the light. Or else heard tales: travellers found him and told him tales. That proves my innocence.

Who says "That proves my innocence"? He says it. Or they say it - yes, they who reason, they who believe. No, in the singular: he who lived, or saw some who had. He speaks of me, as if I were he, as if I were not he (both), and as if I were others (one after another). He is the afflicted. "I am far, do you hear me?" He says I'm far, as if I were he - no, as if I were not he: for he is not far, he is here. It's he who speaks. He says it's I, then he says it's not, I am far. Do you hear him?

He seeks me. (I don't know why, he doesn't know why.) He calls me, he wants me to come out, he thinks I can come out. He wants me to be he (or another, let us be fair). He wants me to rise up, up into him (or up into another, let us be impartial). He thinks he's caught me, he feels me in him, then he says "I", as if I were he (or in another, let us be just). Then he says "Murphy", or "Molloy" (I forget, as if I were Malone). But their day is done, he wants none but himself, for me, he thinks it's his last chance (he thinks that, they taught him thinking). It's always he who speaks. Mercier never spoke, Moran never spoke, I never spoke. I seem to speak, that's because he says "I" as if he were I. (I nearly believed him. Do you hear him: "As if he were I"?) I who am far, who can't move, can't be found. But neither can he. He can only talk, if that much. Perhaps it's not he. Perhaps it's a multitude, one after another.

What confusion!

Someone mentions confusion? Is it a sin? All here is sin. You don't know why, you don't know whose, you don't know against whom.

Someone says "you"? It's the fault of the pronouns. There is no name for me, no pronoun for me: all the trouble comes from that.

"That?" It's a kind of pronoun too. It isn't that either, I'm not that either.

 

Let us leave all that, forget about all that: it's not difficult. Our concern is with someone, or our concern is with something (now we're getting it) - someone or something that is not there, or that is not anywhere, or that is there. (Here? why not, after all?) And our concern is with speaking of that (now we've got it). You don't know why, why you must speak of that: no one can speak of that, you speak of yourself, someone speaks of himself. That's it, in the singular: a single one, the man on duty. (He? I? No matter.) The man on duty speaks of himself. (It's not that. Of others? It's not that either.) He doesn't know (how could he know?) whether he has spoken of that or not (when speaking of himself, when speaking of others, when speaking of things). How can I know (I can't know) if I've spoken of him? I can only speak of me. No, I can't speak of anything. And yet I speak. Perhaps it's of him, I'll never know. (How could I know?) Who could know? Who knowing could tell me?

I don't know who it's all about, that's all I know. No, I must know something else, they must have taught me something. It's about him who knows nothing, wants nothing, can do nothing (if it's possible you can do nothing when you want nothing), who cannot hear, cannot speak, who is I, who cannot be I, of whom I can't speak, of whom I must speak.

That's all hypotheses: I said nothing, someone said nothing. It's not a question of hypotheses, it's a question of going on. It goes on. Hypotheses are like everything else, they help you on - as if there were need of help (that's right, impersonal), as if there were any need of help to go on with a thing that can't stop. And yet it will, it will stop. Do you hear? The voice says it will stop, some day. It says it will stop and it says it will never stop.

 

Fortunately I have no opinion: what would I have an opinion with? With my mouth perhaps, if it's mine. I don't feel a mouth on me, that means nothing. If only I could feel a mouth on me, if only I could feel something on me! I'll try, if I can. I know it's not I, that's all I know. I say "I", knowing it's not I: I am far. "Far" - what does that mean, "far"? No need to be far, perhaps he's here, in my arms. I don't feel any arms on me. If only I could feel something on me, it would be a starting-point. A starting-point! (Ah if I could laugh! I know what it is, they must have told me what it is, but I can't do it. They can't have shown me how to do it. Perhaps it's one of those gifts that can't be acquired.)

The silence. A word on the silence, in the silence. (That's the worst, to speak of silence.) Then lock me up (lock someone up). That is to say.....

What is that to say?

Calm, calm.

I'm calm. I'm locked up, I'm in something. It's not I, that's all I know. No more about that. That is to say, make a place, a little world. It will be round, this time it will be round (it's not certain), low of ceiling, thick of wall. (Why low, why thick? I don't know, it isn't certain, it remains to be seen - all remains to be seen.) A little world. Try and find out what it's like (try and guess). Put someone in it, seek someone in it. And what he's like, and how he manages. It won't be I. No matter.

Perhaps it will! Perhaps it will be my world! (Possible coincidence.) There won't be any windows, we're done with windows: the sea refused me, the sky didn't see me, I wasn't there - and the summer evening air weighing on my eyelids. (We must have eyelids, we must have eyeballs, it's preferable.) They must have explained to me (someone must have explained to me) what it's like, an eye: at the window, before the sea, before the earth, before the sky. At the window, against the air. Opening, shutting: grey, black, grey, black. I must have understood. I must have wanted it, wanted the eye, for my own. I must have tried.

 

All the things they've told me, all the things I've tried! They come in useful still, when I think of them. That too - you must go on thinking too, the old thoughts. They call that thinking: it's visions, shreds of old visions, that's all you can see - a few old pictures, a window. What need had they to show me a window, saying - no, I forget, it doesn't come back to me - a window, saying "There are others, even more beautiful"? And the rest: walls, sky, man (like Mahood), a little nature. (Too long to go over, too forgotten, too little forgotten.) Was it necessary?

But was that how it happened?

Who can have come here? The devil perhaps: I can think of no one else. It's he showed me everything - here, in the dark. And how to speak, and what to say, and a little nature, and a few names. And the outside of men (those in my image, whom I might resemble), and their way of living - in rooms, in sheds, in caverns, in woods (or coming and going, I forget). And who went away and left me, knowing I was tempted, knowing I was lost, whether I succumbed or not.

Have I succumbed, or not? I don't know. It's not I, that's all I know. Since that day it's not I any more, since that day there is no one any more. I must have succumbed.

That's all hypotheses, that helps you forward: I believe in progress, I believe in silence.

Ah yes, a few words on the silence, then the little world: that will be enough, for the rest of eternity. (You'd think it was I - I speaking, I hearing, I making plans, for the passing hour, for the rest of eternity. Whereas I'm far, or in my arms somewhere, or stowed away somewhere, behind walls.) A few words on the silence, then just one thing more. Just one space and someone within, perhaps, until the end. I believe it….. (it's evening already: I call that evening, I wish you could see it)…. I believe it this evening, it's announced and I believe it. You announce, then you renounce. So it is. That helps you on, that helps the end to come, evenings when there is an end. (I speak of evening, someone speaks of evening. Perhaps it's still morning, perhaps it's still night. Personally I have no opinion.)

 

They love each other, marry (in order to love each other better, more conveniently). He goes to the wars, he dies at the wars. She weeps (with emotion) at having loved him, at having lost him. (Yep!) Marries again (in order to love again, more conveniently again). They love each other. (You love as many times as necessary - as necessary in order to be happy.) He come back (the other comes back) from the wars: he didn't die at the wars after all. She goes to the station, to meet him. He dies in the train (of emotion) at the thought of seeing her again, having her again. She weeps (weeps again, with emotion again) at having lost him again. (Yep!) Goes back to the house. He's dead - the other is dead. The mother-in-law takes him down: he hanged himself (with emotion) at the thought of losing her. She weeps (weeps louder) at having loved him, at having lost him.

There's a story for you! That was to teach me the nature of emotion (that's called emotion): what emotion can do (given favourable conditions), what love can do. (Well well! So that's emotion! That's love!) And trains, the nature of trains. And the meaning of your back to the engine, and guards, stations, platforms, wars, love, heart-rending cries. (That must be the mother-in-law: her cries rend the heart as she takes down her son. Or her son-in-law? I don't know. It must be her son, since she cries.) And the door? The house-door is bolted: when she got back from the station she found the house-door bolted. Who bolted it? He the better to hang himself? Or the mother-in-law the better to take him down? Or to prevent her daughter-in-law from re-entering the premises? There's a story for you! (It must be the daughter-in-law: it isn't the son-in-law and the daughter, it's the daughter-in-law and the son. How I reason to be sure this evening!) It was to teach me how to reason, it was to tempt me to go, to the place where you can come to an end.

I must have been a good pupil up to a point (I couldn't get beyond a certain point). I can understand their annoyance, this evening I begin to understand. (Oh there's no danger: it's not I, it wasn't I.)

The door, it's the door interests me (a wooden door). Who bolted the door, and for what purpose? I'll never know.

 

There's a story for you! I thought they were over. Perhaps it's a new one, lepping fresh. Is it the return to the world of fable? No, just a reminder, to make me regret what I have lost, long to be again at the place I was banished from. (Unfortunately it doesn't remind me of anything.)

The silence. Speak of the silence before going into it. Was I there already? I don't know. At every instant I'm there. Listen to me speaking of it, I knew it would come. I emerge from it to speak of it, I stay in it to speak of it. (If it's I who speak - and it's not: I act as if I were, sometimes I act as if I were.) But at length? Was I ever there at length, a long stay? I understand nothing about duration, I can't speak of it. I never say "never" and "ever", I speak of the four seasons and the different parts of the day and night. (The night has no parts, that's because you are asleep.) The seasons must be very similar: perhaps it's springtime now.

That's all words they taught me (without making their meaning clear to me). That's how I learnt to reason. I use them all, all the words they showed me. There were columns of them (oh the strange glow all of a sudden!): they were on lists, with images opposite. I must have forgottten them, I must have mixed them up - these nameless images I have, these imageless names. These windows I should perhaps rather call doors (at least by some other name). And this word "man" which is perhaps not the right one for the thing I see when I hear it? But an instant, an hour, and so on - how can they be represented? A life, how could that be made clear to me, here, in the dark? (I call that the dark, perhaps it's azure.) Blank words. But I use them, they keep coming back - all those they showed me, all those I remember. I need them all, to be able to go on. (It's a lie: a score would be plenty, tried and trusty, unforgettable, nicely varied - that would be palette enough. I'd mix them, I'd vary them. That would be gamut enough.)

All the things I'd do if I could! If I wished (if I could wish)! No need to wish, that's how it will end: in heart-rending cries, inarticulate murmurs (to be invented, as I go along, improvised, as I groan along). I'll laugh - that's how it will end, in a chuckle. "Chuck chuck, ow, ha, pa." (I'll practise). "Nyum, hoo, plop, psss." (Nothing but emotion). "Bing bang!" (That's blows.) "Ugh, pooh!" What else? "Oooh, aaah!" (That's love.) Enough, it's tiring. "Hee hee!" (That's the Abderite - no, the other).

In the end (it's the end, the ending end) it's the silence, a few gurgles on the silence, the real silence. Not the one (where I macerate up to the mouth, up to the ear) that covers me, uncovers me, breathes with me, like a cat with a mouse: that of the drowned. I've drowned, more than once (it wasn't I), suffocated, set fire to me, thumped on my head with wood and iron. It wasn't I. There was no head, no wood, no iron. I didn't do anything to me, I didn't do anything to anyone, no one did anything to me: there is no one (I've looked), no one but me. No, not me either (I've looked everywhere). There must be someone? The voice must belong to someone? I've no objection. What it wants I want. I am it. (I've said so, it says so: from time to time it says so, then it says not - I've no objection.) I want it to go silent, it wants to go silent, it can't. It does for a second, then it starts again: that's not the real silence. What can be said of the real silence? I don't know. That I don't know what it is? That there is no such thing? That perhaps there is such a thing? Yes, that perhaps there is somewhere. I'll never know.

But when it falters? And when it stops? But it falters every instant, it stops every instant! Yes, but when it stops for a good few moments, a good few moments (what are a good few moments?) - what then? Murmurs, then it must be murmurs. And listening, someone listening. No need of an ear, no need of a mouth: the voice listens, as when it speaks, listens to its silence - that makes a murmur, that makes a voice (a small voice - the same voice only small). It sticks in the throat (there's the throat again, there's the mouth again), it fills the ear (there's the ear again). Then I vomit, someone vomits, someone starts vomiting again. That must be how it happens. I have no explanations to offer, none to demand. The comma will come where I'll drown for good, then the silence. I believe it this evening.

Still this evening! How it drags on! (I've no objection.) Perhaps it's springtime: violets (no, that's autumn). There's a time for everything: for the things that pass, the things that end (they could never get me to understand that), the things that stir, depart, return, a light changing (they could never get me to see that). And death into the bargain: a voice dying. (That's a good one!) Silence at last. Not a murmur, no air, no one listening (not for the likes of me). Amen. On we go.

Enormous prison, like a hundred thousand cathedrals. Never anything else any more, from this time forth. And in it, somewhere, perhaps - riveted, tiny - the prisoner. How can he be found?

(How false this space is! What falseness instantly, to want to draw that round you, to want to put a being there! A cell would be plenty.)

If I gave up! If only I could give up! Before beginning, before beginning again! (What breathlessness! That's right, ejaculations! That helps you on, that puts off the fatal hour. No? The reverse? I don't know.)

Start again? In this immensity, this obscurity? Go through the motions of starting again.? You who can't stir, you who never started?

You the who?

Go through the motions? What motions? You can't stir.

You launch your voice, it dies away in the vault. (It calls that a vault - perhaps it's the abyss: those are words). It speaks of a prison (I've no objection) vast enough for a whole people, for me alone (or waiting for me). I'll go there now, I'll try and go there now.

I can't stir.

I'm there already! I must be there already! Perhaps I'm not alone: perhaps a whole people is here, and the voice its voice, coming to me fitfully. We would have lived, been free a moment. Now we talk about it, each one to himself (each one out loud for himself). And we listen. A whole people, talking and listening, all together! That would ex .....

No, I'm alone (perhaps the first, or perhaps the last): talking alone, listening alone, alone alone. The others are gone, they have been stilled (their voices stilled, their listening stilled, one by one, at each new-coming). Another will come? I won't be the last? I'll be with the others (I'll be as gone) in the silence? (It won't be I, it's not I.)

 

I'm not there yet. I'll go there now, I'll try and go there now.

No use trying. I wait for my turn: my turn to go there, my turn to talk there, my turn to listen there, my turn to wait there for my turn to go, to be as gone. (It's unending, it will be unending.) Gone where? Where do you go from there? You must go somewhere else, wait somewhere else, for your turn to go again, and so on (a whole people, or I alone). And come back? And begin again? No: go on, go on again. It's a circuit, a long circuit. I know it well. (I must know it well.)

It's a lie. I can't stir. I haven't stirred. (I launch the voice? I hear a voice.) There is nowhere but here. There are not two places, there are not two prisons. It's my parlour (it's a parlour!), where I wait for nothing. I don't know where it is, I don't know what it's like, that's no business of mine. I don't know if it's big, or if it's small, or if it's closed, if it's open. (That's right, reiterate: that helps you on.) Open on what? There is nothing else, only it. Open on the void, open on the nothing. (I've no objection: those are words.) Open on the silence, looking out on the silence, straight out - why not? All this time on the brink of silence, I knew it! On a rock, lashed to a rock, in the midst of silence. Its great swell rears towards me, I'm streaming with it. (It's an image: those are words.) It's a body, it's not I - I knew it wouldn't be I. I'm not outside, I'm inside, I'm in something, I'm shut up: the silence is outside. Nothing but this voice and the silence all round. No need of walls? Yes, we must have walls: I need walls, good and thick. I need a prison (I was right), for me alone. I'll go there now, I'll put me in it.

 

I'm there already: I'll start looking for me now, I'm there somewhere. It won't be I - no matter, I'll say it's I. Perhaps it will be I. Perhaps that's all they're waiting for (there they are again) to give me quittance. Waiting for me to say I'm someone, to say I'm somewhere, to put me out, into the silence.

I see nothing. It's because there is nothing. Or it's because I have no eyes. Or both. (That makes three possibilities, to choose from.) But do I really see nothing? It's not the moment to tell a lie. But how can you not tell a lie? What an idea!

A voice like this, who can check it? It tries everything. It's blind, it seeks me blindly, in the dark. It seeks a mouth, to enter into. Who can query it? There is no other. (You'd need a head? you'd need things? I don't know. I look too often as if I knew. It's the voice does that: it goes all knowing, to make me think I know, to make me think it's mine.)

It has no interest in eyes. It says I have none, or that they are no use to me. Then it speaks of tears. Then it speaks of gleams. It is truly at a loss. Gleams? Yes: far or near. (Distances: you know, measurements. Enough said?) Gleams, as at dawn. Then dying, as at evening. Or flaring up - they do that too: blaze up more dazzling than snow, for a second (that's short!), then fizzle out.

That's true enough?

If you like: one forgets, I forget. I say I see nothing, or I say it's all in my head (as if I felt a head on me!). That's all hypotheses, lies. These gleams too: they were to save me, they were to devour me. That came to nothing. I see nothing (either because of this or else on account of that). And these images at which they watered me, like a camel, before the desert? I don't know. More lies, just for the fun of it? (Fun! What fun we've had! What fun of it!) All lies? (That's soon said - you must say soon, it's the regulations.)

 

The place. I'll make it all the same. I'll make it in my head, I'll draw it out of my memory, I'll gather it all about me. (I'll make myself a head, I'll make myself a memory.) I have only to listen: the voice will tell me everything (tell it to me again), everything I need - in dribs and drabs, breathless.

It's like a confession, a last confession. You think it's finished, then it starts off again: there were so many sins, the memory is so bad. The words don't come, the words fail, the breath fails.

No, it's something else. It's an indictment, a dying voice accusing. (Accusing me: you must accuse someone, a culprit is indispensable.) It speaks of my sins, it speaks of my head. It says it's mine, it says that I repent, that I want to be punished, better than I am, that I want to go, give myself up (a victim is essential). I have only to listen. It will show me my hiding-place: what it's like, where the door is (if there's a door), and whereabouts I am in it. And what lies between us, how the land lies, what kind of country (whether it's sea, or whether it's mountain). And the way to take, so that I may go, make my escape, give myself up, come to the place where the axe falls (without further ceremony) on all who come from here. (I'm not the first, I won't be the first.) It will best me in the end (it has bested better than me). It will tell me what to do, in order to rise, move, act like a body endowed with despair. (That's how I reason, that's how I hear myself reasoning.)

All lies: it's not me they're calling, not me they're talking about. It's not yet my turn, it's someone else's turn. That's why I can't stir, that's why I don't feel a body on me. I'm not suffering enough to be able to stir, to have a body (complete with head, to be able to understand), to have eyes to light the way. I merely hear, without understanding, without being able to profit by it (by what I hear). To do what? To rise and go and be done with hearing.

 

I don't hear everything, that must be it, the important things escape me: it's not my turn. (The topographical and anatomical information in particular is lost on me.) No, I hear everything (what difference does it make?), the moment it's not my turn: my turn to understand, my turn to live, my turn of the life-screw (it calls that living!), the space of the way from here to the door. It's all there, in what I hear, somewhere - if all has been said, all this long time. All must have been said. But it's not my turn to know what: to know what I am, where I am, and what I should do to stop being it, to stop being there (that's coherent), so as to be another (no? the same? I don't know), depart into life, travel the road, find the door, find the axe (perhaps it's a cord) for the neck, for the throat, for the cords. (Or fingers: I'll have eyes, I'll see fingers.) It will be the silence. (Perhaps it's a drop: find the door, open the door, drop. Into the silence.)

It won't be I. I'll stay here - or there (more likely there). It will never be I, that's all I know. It's been done already, said and said again: the departure, the body that rises, the way (in colour), the arrival, the door that opens, closes again. It was never I. I've never stirred, I've listened.

I must have spoken?

Why deny it? Why not admit it, after all? (I deny nothing, I admit nothing.) I say what I hear? I hear what I say? I don't know. One or the other. Or both. (That makes three possibilities: pick your fancy.)

All these stories about travellers, these stories about paralytics: all are mine. I must be extremely old (or it's memory playing tricks). If only I knew if I've lived, if I live, if I'll live - that would simplify everything! Impossible to find out, that's where you're buggered. I haven't stirred, that's all I know. (No, I know something else: it's not I - I always forget that.) I resume (you must resume): never stirred from here, never stopped telling stories, to myself (hardly hearing them, hearing something else, listening for something else), wondering now and then where I got them from. Was I in the land of the living? Were they in mine? And where? Where do I store them? (In my head? I don't feel a head on me.) And what do I tell them with? With my mouth? (Same remark.) And what do I hear them with?

And so on, the old rigmarole. It can't be I. Or it's because I pay no heed: it's such an old habit, I do it without heeding. Or as if I were somewhere else.

There I am far again, there I am absentee again: it's his turn now, he who neither speaks nor listens, who has neither body nor soul. It's something else he has: he must have something, he must be somewhere. He is made of silence (there's a pretty analysis), he's in the silence. He's the one to be sought, the one to be, the one to be spoken of, the one to speak. But he can't speak: then I could stop, I'd be he, I'd be the silence, I'd be back in the silence, we'd be reunited, his story the story to be told.

But he has no story, he hasn't been in story? It's not certain. He's in his own story, unimaginable, unspeakable. That doesn't matter: the attempt must be made, in the old stories incomprehensibly mine, to find his. It must be there somewhere. It must have been mine, before being his. I'll recognize it, in the end I'll recognize it: the story of the silence that he never left, that I should never have left, that I may never find again, that I may find again. Then it will be he, it will be I, it will be the place: the silence, the end, the beginning, the beginning again - how can I say it? That's all words, they're all I have - and not many of them: the words fail, the voice fails. So be it. I know that well. It will be the silence, full of murmurs, distant cries. The usual silence, spent listening, spent waiting, waiting for the voice.

The cries abate, like all cries. (That is to say they stop.) The murmurs cease, they give up. The voice begins again (it begins trying again). Quick now before there is none left, no voice left, nothing left but the core of murmurs, distant cries: quick now and try again, with the words that remain. Try what? (I don't know, I've forgotten, it doesn't matter, I never knew.) To have them carry me into my story, the words that remain? (My old story, which I've forgotten, far from here.) Through the noise, through the door. Perhaps I'm at the door! (That would surprise me.) Perhaps it's I! Perhaps somewhere or other it was I! I can depart! All this time I've journeyed without knowing it: it's I now at the door. (What door? What's a door doing here?)

 

It's the last words, the true last? Or it's the murmurs? (The murmurs are coming, I know that well.) No, not even that. You talk of murmurs, distant cries, as long as you can talk. You talk of them before and you talk of them after. More lies: it will be the silence (the one that doesn't last) spent listening, spent waiting (for it to be broken, for the voice to break it). Perhaps there's no other, I don't know. It's not worth having, that's all I know. (It's not I, that's all I know.) It's not mine. It's the only one I ever had? That's a lie: I must have had the other, the one that lasts - but it didn't last. (I don't understand.) That is to say it did: it still lasts. I'm still in it. I left myself behind in it. I'm waiting for me there. (No, there you don't wait, you don't listen.)

I don't know: perhaps it's a dream, all a dream. (That would surprise me.) I'll wake, in the silence, and never sleep again. (It will be I?) Or dream (dream again), dream of a silence, a dream silence, full of murmurs (I don't know, that's all words), never wake (all words, there's nothing else).

 

You must go on, that's all I know.

They're going to stop, I know that well: I can feel it. They're going to abandon me. It will be the silence, for a moment (a good few moments). Or it will be mine? The lasting one, that didn't last, that still lasts? It will be I?

You must go on.

I can't go on.

You must go on.

I'll go on. You must say words, as long as there are any - until they find me, until they say me. (Strange pain, strange sin!) You must go on. Perhaps it's done already. Perhaps they have said me already. Perhaps they have carried me to the threshold of my story, before the door that opens on my story. (That would surprise me, if it opens.)

It will be I? It will be the silence, where I am? I don't know, I'll never know: in the silence you don't know.

You must go on.

I can't go on.

I'll go on.