Rudely born and raised among mute empty things that passed him by with or without him as later words would pass him by sink into him and pass by let him see them till it seemed he was like them then passed by let him see them yet not see them as if he were another mute word yet something other too something quite different a space full of words surrounded by the still patient things of which he was one yet not one and it was in this time having been so rudely born and improperly raised lowered and levelled taken in and thrust out by things and words that he began to walk into a kind of death in life or life in death with wide eyes and a little hoard of hard-won wordless watchwords the hoard he had in spite or because of it all hoarded it is now that he walks at last wide-eyed into the night which is day the dark which is light which is waiting become living perhaps problem become its own solution.
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.
Notes for a fragmentary novel entitled The Moment, linked at the top of the page.
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