If these were someone else’s words, X tells me, if this were someone else’s speech he might nod solemnly, but it isn’t, is it, he says, it’s all lies, incomplete lies at that, so all he can do is carry on, hope for the best, fear the worst, wade through this morass of clichés, towards what? he asks. A personal language? Absurd, he says. Clearly the enterprise was doomed from the start, he says. Yet he carries on, he says, must carry on, even though I’m not listening.
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Everyone carries a room about inside him. This fact can even be proved by means of the sense of hearing. If someone walks fast and one pricks up one's ears and listens, say in the night, when everything round about is quiet, one hears, for instance, the rattling of a mirror not quite firmly fastened to the wall.
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Kafka
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…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.
– Beckett, The Unnameable
…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.
– Beckett, The Unnameable
What is a human life compared to the life of a word? Perhaps nothing. Or all. Or all of a Nothing or again Nothing of an All.
– Jabés, El, or the Last Book (trans. R. Waldrop)
What is a human life compared to the life of a word? Perhaps nothing. Or all. Or all of a Nothing or again Nothing of an All.
– Jabés, El, or the Last Book (trans. R. Waldrop)