Monthly Archives: September 2009

Nausea

‘I looked at my mouth in the mirror, I didn’t want to look at my eyes. Why not? It wasn’t guilt, exactly. I was alone in my room, I didn’t have much to feel guilty about. My mouth I could control, my eyes I couldn’t: in my eyes I’d get lost. A woman might give me reasons, but I didn’t need those anymore. You could have told me perhaps, why didn’t you? The eyes lie, of course. And the mouth? The eyeless eye. It lies too, of course, but differently. Faint nausea. Fingers typing, eyes watching: lying. And you, does this nausea worm though you as it does through me, doesn’t it come from you?’

A form of loss

‘I speak to restore the link between us, but only my words tell me the link is broken. Did it exist, once? I speak from the end, from after the end, and the lost link I seek rises from my words like a mirage. My words themselves are the mirage: they aren’t my words at all, but a form of loss. They summon something, start some cause that begins in me because it ends in you, or ends in me because it begins in you. And the wondrous thing is that the words themselves are the break between us. Hence the laughter that wells up from creation, laughing at itself.’

An anonymous cause

 But images of this kind the will cannot revive without doing them violence. Much of what they had it takes away, much they never had it foists upon them. And the Molloy I brought to light, that memorable August Sunday, was certainly not the true denizen of my dark places, for it was not his hour. But so far as the essential features were concerned, I was easy in my mind, the likeness was there. And the discrepancy could have been still greater for all I cared. For what I was doing I was doing neither for Molloy, who mattered nothing to me, nor for myself, of whom I despaired, but on behalf of a cause which, while having need of us to be accomplished, was in its essence anonymous, and would subsist, haunting the minds of men, when its miserable artisans should be no more. It will not be said, I think, that I did not take my work to heart. But rather, tenderly, Ah those old craftsmen, their race is extinct and the mould broken.

– Beckett, Molloy

The writer’s mastery

The writer’s mastery is not in the hand that writes, the ‘sick’ hand that never lets the pencil go – that can’t let it go because what it holds it doesn’t really hold; what it holds belongs to the realm of shadows, and it is itself a shade. Mastery always characterises the other hand, the one that doesn’t write and is capable of intervening at the right moment to seize the pencil and put it aside. Thus mastery consists in the power to stop writing, to interrupt what is being written, thereby restoring to the present instant its rights, its decisive trenchancy.

– Blanchot, The Space of Literature (trans. A. Smock)

Unmasterable

‘Your words are alien this morning, like an irregular heartbeat. Where are you? Don’t you know where you’re taking me? Unmasterable, even to yourself. We float, as in those dreams in which you can’t run, too light for ourselves at last.’

Marvellous impossibility

The evening after she goes, you tell the story of the affair in a bar. At first you tell it as if it were possible to do so, then you give up. Then you tell it laughingly, as if it were impossible for it to have happened or possible for you to have invented it.
The next day, suddenly, perhaps you’d notice her absence in the room. The next day, you’d perhaps feel a desire to see her there again, in the strangeness of your solitude, as a stranger herself.
Perhaps you’d look for her outside your room, on the beaches, outside cafés, in the streets. But you wouldn’t be able to find her, because in the light of day you can’t recognize anyone. You wouldn’t recognize her. All you know of her is her sleeping body beneath her shut or half-shut eyes. The penetration of one body by another – that you can’t recognize, ever. You couldn’t ever.
When you wept it was just over yourself and not because of the marvelous impossibility of reaching her through the difference that separates you.

– Duras, ‘The Malady of Death’ (trans. B. Bray)

William Bronk

There Is Ignorant Silence in the Center of Things

What am I saying? What have I got to say?
As though I knew. But I don’t. I look around
almost in a sort of despair for anything
I know. For anything. Some mislaid bit.
I must have had it somewhere, somewhere here.
Nothing. There is silence here. Were there people, once?
They must have all gone off. No, there are still
people, still a few. But the sound is off.
If we could talk, could hear each other speak
could we piece something, could we learn and teach,
could we know?
Hopeless. Off in the distance, busyness.
Something building or coming down. Cries.
Clamor. Fuss at the edges. What? Here,
at the center — it is the center? — only the sound
of silence, that mocking sound. Awful. Once,
before this, I stood in an actual ruin, a street
no longer a street, in a town no longer a town,
and felt the central, strong suck of it, not
understanding what I felt: the heart of things.
This nothing. This full silence. To not know.

*

Metonymy as an Approach to a Real World

Whether what we sense of this world
is the what of this world only, or the what
of which of several possible worlds
– which what? – something of what we sense
may be true, may be the world, what it is, what we sense.
For the rest, a truce is possible, the tolerance
of travelers, eating foreign foods, trying words
that twist the tongue, to feel that time and place,
not thinking that this is the real world.

Conceded, that all the clocks tell local time;
conceded, that “here” is anywhere we bound
and fill a space; conceded, we make a world:
is something caught there, contained there,
something real, something which we can sense?
Once in a city blocked and filled, I saw
the light lie in the deep chasm of a street,
palpable and blue, as though it had drifted in
from say, the sea, a purity of space.

*

World, world, I am scared
and waver in awe before the wilderness
of raw consciousness, because it is all
dark and formlessness; and it is real
this passion that we feel for forms. But the forms
are never real. Are not really there. Are not.

(from ‘Light and Dark’)

– William Bronk