What was the ‘planetary’ time, the time of the day you tried to understand when you first came out to the countryside, when you started this journal? Didn’t you see it in the indifferent sea, the fields, the drifts of clouds, the way Rookie sat on the windowsill for hours with his eyes closed? Didn’t time seem monstrously long? A time of slowly changing seasons, the turning of the Earth in an eternal space that doesn’t bear thinking about… Nothing to do with you, yet hanging over you like a cloud at dusk. The dreaded boredom of the day. And alongside it the shallow dispersals of everyday life under the cloud of capital that you were happy to sign up to, as if you could escape so easily.
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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