SAMUELBECKETT

TheUnnamableEditedbyStevenConnor

Contents

TitlePage

Preface

References

TableofDates

ManuscriptofopeningpageofL’Innommable(TheUnnamable)

TheUnnamable

AbouttheAuthor

AbouttheEditor

TitlesintheSamuelBeckettseries

Copyright

Preface

AfterawarspentinhidinginthesouthofFrance,andaperiodspentworkingataRedCrosshospital inSaint-Lô,SamuelBeckett returned tohisapartment inParisatthebeginningof1946totry,likesomanyothers,toresumehislife.HehadbeenwritingforfifteenyearsandhadtohisnameashortcriticalessayonProust(1931),abookofshortstories(MorePricksthanKicks,1934),avolumeofpoems(Echo’sBones,1935)andanovel(Murphy,1938),ofwhosefortuneshehadhadnowordduringthewar,andwhichhediscoveredhadbeenallowedto go out of print in 1943. He also had themanuscript of a novel written inRoussillon, thewildlyweirdWatt,which began a long career of rejections bybaffledpublishers in1946. If thesewerenotentirely inspiringprospects, thereseemednoreasoneitherwhyBeckettshouldnotbeabletoresume,onthesametermsasbefore,hisplaceasaminorparticipantintheliteraryandartisticcirclesthatwerebeginningtocomebacktogetherinParis,ekingouttheallowancehereceivedfromhismotherwithworkasajobbingreviewerandtranslator.

Two things occurred to change all this. The first was a realisation thatsuddenly came to Beckett, probably during a trip back to Ireland to visit hisfamily inMay1946, that thewayforhim towritemightnot involve trying toemulatetheconstellatoryomnicompetenceofJamesJoyce,butratherexploringtheoppositecondition,ofimpotence,ignoranceandweakness.Thesecondwasthe practical and philosophical enactment of this renunciation as, returning toParis,Beckettbeganwriting,not in theEnglishofwhichhehadmadehimselfsuch a perplexing and exhibitionist virtuoso, but in the French of his adoptedcountry.Thiswasnotquitesuchanabruptorovernightdecisionasissometimesthought, for Beckett had in fact begun writing in French before the war,producingashortcriticalessay(‘Lesdeuxbesoins’)andasequenceofpoems.More significantly, perhaps, he had also completed a translation of his novelMurphy into French, partly in collaboration with his friend Alfred Péron, in1940.Beckettwouldspeakoftenandconsistently in lateryearsof thesalutaryeffects of writing in a language which was less sumptuously stuffed with

stylishness as English was, for him at least. But it is likely that significantencouragement for his beginning towrite in Frenchwas also provided by thefactthat,attheendof1945,hehadsignedacontractwiththepublisherBordasfortheFrenchversionofMurphy,alongwithallfutureworkbothinFrenchandin English. In the event, Bordas would show no interest in any of the workBeckettwas tooffer themover thenextsixyears, leadinghimeventually,andaftersomepainfulwrangling, toextracthimselffromhiscontractwiththemin1951;butthesigningofthecontractmustinitiallyhaveprovidedaconsiderableboosttohissenseofthepossibilityofbeingabletoestablishhimselfasawriterinFrench.

Whatever the impetus may have been, there then followed a remarkabletorrentofwritinginFrench,beginningwithfourlongstoriesor‘nouvelles’,andanothernovel inFrench,MercieretCamier, bothofwhichwerecompleted in1946,andaplay,Eleuthéria,writteninasinglemonthatthebeginningof1947.Then followed the sequence of three novels of which TheUnnamable is theculmination,allsubstantiallycompletedoverthenextthreeyears,alongwiththeplaythatwouldmakeBeckettsuddenlyfamous,EnattendantGodot.

Molloywaswritteninsevenmonths,between1Mayand1November1947.Itssequel,Malonemeurt,wasbegunalmoststraightaway,on27November,andcompleted six months later, on 30 May 1948. A pause of ten months thenensued, and it seemsclear thatBeckett had no thought of a third novel in thesequence at this point. He wrote to Thomas MacGreevy in January 1948,referring toMolloy as the second last in a sequence ofworks beginningwithMurphy,onthelastofwhich(Malonemeurt)hewascurrentlyatwork(Pilling2006, p. 102). It was not until 29 March 1949 that Beckett began work onL’Innommable.Hisprincipaldiversionduringthislay-offwasthewritingofEnattendant Godot, in a four-month streak between October 1948 and January1949.

Thethirdnoveltooklongerthaneitherofitspredecessors.Beckettworkedonhis first draft forninemonths, fromMarch1949 to January1950.Pressureofothercommitments,notablythetranslationshewaspreparingfortheAnthologyofMexicanPoetry thatwould eventually appear inEnglish in 1958, kept himfromcompletingL’InnommableuntilhetookthemanuscriptwithhimtoIrelandinJune1950,wherehewouldremainuntilSeptember,typingitup.Meanwhile,his partner, Suzanne Deschevaux-Dumesnil, had been active on his behalf,

trying,intheabsenceofanyinterestfromBordas,tointeresttherecentlyformedÉditionsdeMinuitinBeckett’sFrenchnovels,ofwhichtherewerenowfourinthequeue:MercieretCamier,Molloy,MalonemeurtandL’Innommable.

That Beckett had come to think of the last three as forming a coherentsequenceisindicatedbythefactthatwhenhedideventuallysignacontractwithMinuit inNovember1950 itwas for publication as awholeofwhatwould intimebecomeknownsimplyastheTrilogy.However,thenovelswerepublishedseparately, Molloy in February 1951 and Malone meurt later that year, inNovember. There then followed almost a two-year gap before L’InnommableappearedinJuly1953.Itwouldsell476copiesinthefirstyear,aprettydecentsale and one no doubt buoyed up byBeckett’s new fame as the author ofEnattendantGodot,whichhadpremieredinJanuary1953.

Thehugeoutpouringofworkwritten inFrench from1946 to1950had leftBeckettwith the bleak aftermath of having to produceEnglish translations, tocatchupwithhimself.Somewhatoddly,giventhatBecketthadnotsoughtmuchassistanceinwritingorrevisingtheoriginaltextsinFrench,hisinitialideawastogivethejobofturninghisworkintoEnglishtosomebodyelse,andtheyoungwriterPatrickBowleswasselectedfor the task.But if thiswas the idea, itdidnot last long, for Beckettwas soonwrestlingwith the text alongside Bowles,working closely on each sentence. The fact that Minuit announced that itexpected Bowles to be Beckett’s translator for two more years suggests thatBeckettinitiallyintendedtocollaboratewithhimontranslatingallthenovelsintheTrilogy.ButBeckettseemsinitiallytohavefounditmoreefficient,andlesstrying,forBowlestoproducefirstversionsofthetextforhimtoworkover,andsubsequently,followingthetranslationofMolloy,totakesoleresponsibilityforlater translations.Work on the translation of the next novel in the sequence,Malone meurt, occupied him almost continuously for much of 1955, and heexpected to be able to beginwork on translatingL’Innommable the followingyear.

As with its original composition, translating L’Innommable gave Beckettmuchmore trouble than theprevious twonovels in the sequence, toughgoingthoughtheyhadbeen.HebeganthejobinMarch1956,butthenabandonedit.Hewrote guiltily to ThomasMacGreevy in July, telling him that he knew heshouldbegettingonwiththetranslation,butthatitwasanimpossiblejob.Allthetime,newworkwasbeginningtomakedemands,includingofcoursefurther

translating demands. Thesewere intensified by the fact that Beckett seems tohaveconsideredatthispointinhislifethathemighthavetoberesponsiblefortheGermantranslationsofhisworkaswell:hehadalreadyworkedcloselywithErich Franzen on the German translation of Molloy. By January 1957, thegloomyprospectlaybeforehimoftranslatingAllThatFall,aradioplayhehadwritteninEnglishfortheBBC(andhisfirstworkinEnglishforovertenyears),andofworkingonboththeGermanandEnglishtranslationsoftheplayFindepartieandtheGermantranslationsofMalonemeurtandEcho’sBones.Becketteventually began to translateL’Innommable in his country cottage at Ussy inFebruary1957,butwroteinMarchtoAidanHigginsthathedoubtedbeingableto complete it. Just as he hadwritten thewhole ofEnattendantGodot in theintermissionbetweenMalonemeurtandL’Innommable,henowcompleted theEnglishtranslationofFindepartieintoEndgameinafewweeksbetweenMayandJune1957.TherewasanotherprotestationoftheimpossibilityoftranslatingL’Innommable ina letter toEthnaMacCarthy inNovember, andhe toldMaryHutchinsoninDecemberthathehadonlygotjustbeyondhalfwaythroughit.Heresumedthetaskon21January1958andwasabletocompleteafirstdraftby23February. Working on The Unnamable coincided with a bout of writing inEnglish–firstofallonhisradioplayEmbers,andthenonKrapp’sLastTape,which, glimpsing the finishing line perhaps, he began three days beforecompleting the first draft ofTheUnnamable. But he would not complete therevision of the translation until June 1958, more than two years after he hadstarted on it, the translation thus taking twice as long as writing the novel inFrenchinthefirstplace.

Where theoriginalmanuscriptnotebooksofL’Innommable suggest that thattext was composed easily, with few revisions, the three exercise books andsubsequent typescript inwhichBeckettworked on his translation (held in theHumanitiesResearchCenter,Austin,Texas)showfrequentdeletions,insertionsandrevisions(Admussen1979,pp.60,86–7).Morethanwasthecasewiththepreceding two works of the Trilogy, Beckett seems to have seen in thetranslationprocessanopportunity tomakeaconsiderablenumberof smallbutsometimessignificantadjustmentstotheoriginal,withtheresultthattheEnglishUnnamableisaratherdifferenttextfromtheFrench.Thisisapparentfromtheoutset,whereBeckettdecidestochangetheorderofthequestionsthatopenthetext,‘Oùmaintenant?Quandmaintenant?Quimaintenant?’(Beckett1971,p.7)being rendered (somewhat less logically?) as ‘Where now?Who now?When

now?’(Beckett1959b,p.293).BeckettwasevenuncertaintobeginwithabouthowtorenderthetitleintoEnglish,andweshouldcertainlybegratefulthathedecided against the idea he briefly entertained of calling it Beyond Words(Admussen 1979, p. 87).A particularly large class of revisions involveswhatBeckettwilllaterinWorstwardHocall‘worsening’,thedisimprovinginvariouswaysof his speaker’s predicament, or intensification of his reaction to it. Theannoyanceat‘metrouversurunterrainsipeusolide’issharpenedto‘havingtoflounderinsuchmuck’(Beckett1959b,p.326).Theinoffensive‘Histoires…’becomes‘ballsaboutbeingandexisting’(Beckett1959b,p.351).Sometimesaphrase is omitted from the English translation for the purposes of weakening(thoughtheeffectisunlikelytobedetectabletoanybutareaderawareofwhathasbeenomitted):thesentence‘fornowwemustspeak,andspeakofWorm’ismadetodowithoutthelastreassurancethattheFrenchseemstogiveitself–‘ilfaut le pouvoir’ (‘it must be possible’). The sequence ‘no vegetables, nominerals’ is similarly truncated, dropping the ‘pas d’animaux’ of the French.‘[M]yinexistenceintheeyesofthosewhoarenotintheknow’(Beckett1959b,p.347)ratchetsupthesimple‘existence’oftheFrench.Beckettalsooftentakestheopportunitytosharpencomicincongruity,forexampleintheopeningwordsof the text inwhich the aside ‘premierpasva’, forwhich the straight-forwardtranslation‘firststeptaken’wouldhaveheldnosurprises(thoughitwouldhavesacrificed the play between the twomeanings ofpas, ‘not’ and ‘step’), but isrenderedinthequeerlylurching‘offitgoeson’(Beckett1959b,p.293).IntheEnglishtext,Mahood’swifeannouncestoherchildren,ofherapproachingone-leggedhusband,‘Ohlookchildren,he’sdownonhishandsandknee’(Beckett1959b, p. 321), which gives a grotesque exactitude to the unexceptional butanatomically incorrect ‘il estàgenoux’of theFrench.Sometimes themove togreaterspecificityishardertoaccountfor;thespeakerdescribeshimselfhaltingat intervals to rub his stump not just with ‘du baume tranquille’, but with‘Elliman’sEmbrocation’ (Beckett1959b,p.323).Theprotest that ‘it’snotmyturn…myturntolive’renders‘montourdevie’as‘myturnofthelife-screw’(Beckett1959b,p.403),therebyveritablyimpartinganotherturnofthescrewtothe original formulation. The cumulative result is an English text that seems(again if only to the comparing eye) angrier, more pained and more bitterlyuncompromisingthantheFrench,andwithgreaterandmoresardonicswitchesof register (‘c’est un beau rêve que je viens de faire là, un excellent rêve’ –‘that’sadarlingdreamI’vebeenhaving,abrothofadream’[Beckett1959b,p.382]).

Oneisabletoseetheprocessoftransformationsometimesinthethreeearlyexcerpts from the ongoing translation that Beckett published during 1958 inTexasQuarterly,ChicagoReviewandSpectrum(Beckett1958a,1958b,1958c).Theversionofthefirstfiveparagraphsthatappearedinthewinter1958issueofSpectrum, for example, tells us that ‘therewill not bemuch on the subject ofMalone,fromwhomthereisnothingmoretobeexpected’(Beckett1958c,p.4),whichisnottoofarawayfrom‘ilserapeuquestiondeMalone,dequiiln’yaplusrienàattendre’(Beckett1971,p.9).Thefinalversionof the textdarkensthisslightly,butperceptibly,to‘fromwhomthereisnothingfurthertobehoped’(Beckett 1959b, p. 294). Other small changes move us from the relativeplainness of the French to the slightly stickler-ish precision of the English,perhapsreversingalittletheweakeningthatBeckettsoughtinwritinginFrench.IntheSpectrumversion,Maloneappears‘alwaysatthesamedistance’(Beckett1958c,p.6)–‘àlamêmedistance’(Beckett1971,p.12)–but,inthefinaltext,‘at thesameremove’(Beckett1959b,p.296);a little later ‘IhopeImayhaveoccasion to come back to this question’ – ‘J’espère que j’aurai l’occasion derevenir surcequestion’ (Beckett1971,p.12)–evolves into the slightlymorebureaucratic ‘I hope I may have occasion to revert to this question’ (Beckett1959b,p.6).

Similarly,theprocessofreasoningismadealittlemoreironicallyacademicinthe reflections on the speaker’s position with regard to the orbiting figure ofMalone:‘CaralorsMalone’(Beckett1971,p.13)becomes‘ForifIwere[atthecircumference]thenMalone’(Beckett195c,p.7),andthenintheCalderandBoyars edition ‘For if Iwere itwould follow thatMolloy’ (Beckett 1959b, p.297).Itispossiblethatthechangefrom‘Malone’to‘Molloy’isintendedtobethewarrantofthespeaker’sslightuncertaintyaboutthecharacter’sidentity,butitseemstomelikelytobeanerror,andthiseditionreinstates the‘Malone’oftheSpectrum text and theOlympia edition (Beckett 1959a, p. 409).However,therearesimilarvariationsinthenamingofcharactersbetweentheFrenchandEnglishversions, involving the substitutionofMalone forMahood.Reflectingonhis ideaofhis ‘master’, the speaker in theFrenchversion remarks ‘Ceci atout l’air d’une anecdote deMahood. Et pourtant non, toutes les histoires deMahoodétaientsurmoi’(Beckett1971,p.43).TheCalderandBoyarsversionof the English text gives ‘This sounds like one of Malone’s anecdotes’, andomits the second sentence (‘Andyet allMahood’s storieswereofme’),whilethe Grove text translates the French faithfully: ‘This sounds like one of

Mahood’sanecdotes’(Beckett2006,p.306).Alittlelater,duringthedescriptionofMahood’s one-legged progress towards the rotunda, an aside in the Frenchtext, ‘je citeMahood’ (Beckett 1971, p. 55), is rendered as ‘I quoteMalone’(Beckett 1959, p. 322); once again, the Grove edition translates the Frenchexactly–‘IquoteMahood’(Beckett2006,p.313).Athirdexampleoccurswhena remark regarding exhortations that the speaker hears which ‘empruntent lemêmevéhiculequeceluiemployéparMahoodetconsorts’(Beckett1971,p.83)becomes‘areconveyedtomebythesamechannelasthatusedbyMaloneandCo.’,withtheGroveversiononcemoretranslatingliterally,with‘MahoodandCo.’ (Grove 2006, p. 330). These variations are puzzling. Are they Beckett’sown slips of concentration, or are they evidence of the deliberate attempt tocompoundtheconfusionofthespeakerwithregardtothevoicesthathehears?Threesuchmistakescertainlyseemtoomanytobeaccidental.But,iftheGrovepress edition representsBeckett’s owncorrection, it seems odd that he shouldhaveallowedtheCalderandBoyarstoretaintheMalonereferences.Giventheuncertainty,thiseditionretainstheCalderandBoyarsreadings.

Similar transitions can be observed in the other excerpts. In the ChicagoReview excerpt, from the sectiondealingwith the narrator’s life ina jar, ‘mycourse is not a spiral’ (Beckett 1958b, p. 82), translating ‘Ce n’est pas unespirale,monchemin’ (Beckett 1971, p. 66), becomes in the1959version ‘mycourse isnothelicoidal’ (Beckett1959b,p.329), and ‘myeyes, free to roll atwill’,translating‘lesyeux,quiontunefacultéderoulementautonome’(Beckett1958b,p.83),turnsintothecodlyrical‘myeyes,freetorollastheylist’(Beckett1959b,p.329).IntheTexasQuarterlyextract,adensepassagefromthecloseofthe novel, the ‘le petit matin’ of the French text (Beckett 1971, p. 190) isrendered as ‘the crack of dawn’, but then sardonically screwed up to ‘thedayspring’(Beckett1959b,p.404)inthefinalversion.

Other changes of emphasis are necessitated by the impossibility of exactequivalence.The sing-song sequence ‘d’histoires de berceau, cerceau, puceau,pourceau, sang et eau, peau et os, tombeau’ – literally, ‘stories of the cradle,hoop-skirt, virgin, hog, blood and water, skin and bone, gravestone’ (Beckett1971,p.152)–isexpansivelyreinventedin‘taleslikethisofwombsandcribs,diapersbepissed and the first long trousers, love’syoungdreamand life’soldlech,bloodandtearsandskinandbonesandthetossinginthegrave’(Beckett1959b,p.382).Oneofthemoresubstantialexcisionsisofapassagereflecting

onthefly-catchingskillsofthefigureinthejaroutsidetherestaurant:

Desmouches.Ellesnesontpeut-êtrepastrèsnourrissantes,nid’ungoûttrèsplaisant,mais la question n’est pas là,mais ailleurs, loin de l’utile, loin del’agréable. J’attrape aussi les papillons de nuit, attirés par les lampions,quoiqueplusdifficilement.Maisjen’ensuisencorequ’àmesdébuts,danscenouvelexercice,jesuisloind’avoiratteintmonplafond.(Beckett1971,p.76)

Theflies.Theyareperhapsneitherverynourishing,norverypleasant to thetaste,butitisnotaquestionofthat,butofsomethingelse,farfromutilityorpleasure. I also catch moths, attracted by the lanterns, though with moredifficulty.Butitisstillearlydaysinthisnewenterprise,Iamfarfromhavingreachedmypeak.[Mytranslation]

WiththecompletionofhisEnglishtranslation,Beckettwasnowinapositiontopublishall threenovels of theTrilogy together.He seems to havebeen ratherambivalenton thisquestionof itscollectivedesignation.Althoughhewrote toAidanHiggins inAugust 1958 that he had alwayswanted the three novels toappear in one volume, he also informed John Calder on two occasions, inJanuaryandDecember1958,thathedidnotwishtheword‘trilogy’tobeusedofthebooks(Pilling2006,pp.141,143).HewouldwriteinsimilarlyemphatictermstoBarneyRossetofGrovePressinMay1959.ThethreetextswerefirstpublishedinonevolumebyOlympiaPress,underthetitleMolloy,MaloneDies,TheUnnamable–ATrilogyandbyGrovePress,withthetitleBecketthimselfsuggested(AckerleyandGontarski2004,p.596),ThreeNovels:Molloy,MaloneDies, The Unnamable. The English Calder and Boyars edition appeared inMarch 1960, though with a 1959 imprint, and, like the Grove Press edition,madenoreferencetothetextsbeingatrilogy.Nevertheless,theinseparabilityofTheUnnamablefromthesequenceasawhole,anditsroleinconfirmingitasasustained and completed sequence is suggested by the fact that no separateeditionofTheUnnamablewouldbecomeavailable inBritainuntilCalder andBoyarsissuedtheirsin1975.

TheUnnamableseemstriumphantlytousetheextremeconditionsofinhibitionandimpedimentthatithassetforitselftogenerateawayofkeepinggoing.Butthere isnodoubt thatBeckettdidseeTheUnnamableasagenuine impasse,a

pointbeyondwhich,foralongtime,itseemedimpossibleforhimtogo.Forthisreason,Beckett himself seems to have seen the text as a defining point in hiscareer.InaninterviewwithIsraelSchenker,publishedintheNewYorkTimeson5May1956,BeckettreferredtohispredicamentafterTheUnnamableor,as itstillwasatthattime,L’Innommable:

Iwroteallmyworkveryfast–between1946and1950.SincethenIhaven’twrittenanything.Oratleastnothingthathasseemedtomevalid.TheFrenchworkbroughtme to thepointwhere I felt Iwassaying thesame thingoverand over again … In the last book, L’Innommable, there’s completedisintegration.No‘I’,no‘have’,no‘being’.Nonominative,noaccusative,noverb.There’snowaytogoon.

ItwouldbeunwisetoassumethattheseareBeckett’sipsissimaverba,sincethisissimplythereportofaninterview.But, ifBeckettdid indeedsaythathehadnotwrittenanythingafterL’Innommable, ‘the lastbook’, it isslightlyodd thathe should do so, for he had in fact published Textes pour rien in November1955, and had completed early versions of both the playFin de partie and amime that would becomeActe sans paroles. The Unnamable may have beenparticularlyonBeckett’smindwhenhegavethisinterviewin1956becausehewasatthatmomentstrugglingtomakeheadwaywiththeEnglishtranslationofit.ItseemsasthoughthenovelmayhavecontinuedtofunctionforBeckettasakindof recurring limit,orneplusultra, even after hehad in actual fact put itbehindhim.

Oddlyenough,Becketthadfoundtheescaperouteevenbeforebeginning towrite what would become the third text of the Trilogy, for after completingMalonemeurt he suspendedwork on fiction to composeEn attendantGodot.ThiswasbynomeansBeckett’s firstattemptatdrama, forhehadworked forsome time on a play about the life of Samuel Johnson, of which only thefragment known as ‘Human Wishes’ survives, and had completed the playEleuthéria, which he never translated into English and which would not bepublisheduntilafterhisdeath.ButitwasWaitingforGodotthatwastomarkthebeginningofhisinvolvementinthetheatreinearnest.

Beckett would report the sensation of not being able to go on, frequently,throughouttherestofhiswritinglife,buttheextremechallengeoffindingawayofbeginningagainafterTheUnnamableseemstoprovidethetemplateforthese

experiences.Nearlyall commentatorshaveagreedwithBeckett in findingTheUnnamableakindofterminus:theultimatepointofparadoxicalintensification,wherenarrativemeanshaveshrunktonothing,butnarrationmustgoon,wherethere is nothing left to write with or about, and yet somehow the writingmanagestocontinue,consumedbyandsubsistingonlyonitself.

Seeingitas,inMichaelRobinson’swords,‘theinevitableandterrifyingend’tohisworkuptothatpoint(Robinson1969,p.191),criticswritingofBeckett’sfictionuptotheendofthe1970stendedtoexhibitacertainstunned,respectfulperplexitywithregardtothenovel.Theyseemunwillingtodomuchmorethanoffermoreorlesssimplifyingexplicationsorparaphrasesof it, relyingheavilyonextendedquotations.Ofcoursesuchsummaries, like thoseofJohnFletcher(Fletcher1964,pp.179–94)orEugeneWebb(Webb1970,pp.123–9),offeredvery considerable and much-needed assistance to baffled early readers of thenovel (I was one of them). But it was as though the novel’s extreme andunremitting reflexivity, at once exhaustedly and tirelessly ‘on the alert againstitself’, made it impossible for criticism to extract itself sufficiently from thenovel’sworkingstogetacriticalfixonitfromtheoutside.WemightsaythatcriticswritingaboutTheUnnamable throughthe1960sand1970swereforcedtoreplicatetheconditionofBecketthimself,whoin1946protestedhisinabilityto‘writeabout’(GontarskiandUhlmann2006,p.20).

OnenotableexceptiontothispassivityisHughKenner’sbriefaccountofthenovelin1973.Whileagreeingthatthisisadifficult,‘Zerobook’,which,‘ofallthefictionswehaveintheworld,mostcruellyreducesthescopeofincident,thewealth of character’ (Kenner 1973, p. 112), Kenner nevertheless differs frommostothercritics,whofindinthebookacontagiousterror,itslanguageonthepoint of toppling over into pure scream or panicky babble. Kenner, almostuniquely, and perhaps even a touch perversely, finds a kind of extremecomposureor‘calmexcellence’(Kenner1973,p.113)inTheUnnamable.Here,he thinks, there isnoneof theknowingness, thewinking, slightlyexhibitionistexcess-to-requirementsthatissometimesapparentintheearlierbooks.Instead,a‘wearypersistence,likethelowvitalityoftheheartthatbeatsduringsurgery,issetting sentence after sentence with unwavering punctilio’ (Kenner 1973, p.113).Whereothershavefoundpassionateintensityinthenovel,Kennerfocuseson the ‘heroism without drama’ which, more than mere naming, offersdeclaration, ‘which detaches from the big blooming buzzing confusion this

thing, this subject, this’ (Kenner 1973, p. 114) – this being Beckett’s way ofcombatingtheNothing,‘byamoralquality,bytheminimalcouragethatutters,utters,utters,withoutmoan,withoutsolecism’(Kenner1973,p.115).

Gradually, through the 1970s, another, somewhat more defensive kind ofresponse to The Unnamable emerged. This avoided the temptation of beingtuggedhelplesslyintotheepistemologicalvortexofthenovel,byregardingitasakindofallegory.Readingsofthissortstartedtoassumethatthenovelwasnotreally about what it said it was, but teasingly was the staging, or indirectfiguration, of some more general set of issues, of a recognisably religious,philosophical,psychologicalorpoliticalnature.SeeingTheUnnamableasbeingabout something else seems often to have helped tomake itmore docile andtractable,assistingthecriticinhisorhervocationofgivinganametoBeckett’sUnnamable, rather than having to be helplessly ventriloquised by it, apredicament that uncomfortably reproduces that of the narrator in the novel.Such criticism insinuates that the secret name of The Unnamable is notessentially inaccessible, but rather withheld. An example of this approach isHélèneBaldwin’sstudyofreligiousmysticisminBeckett,whichcentresonthequest for what, seizing on a phrase from TheUnnamable, she calls the ‘realsilence’,ofBeckett’swork.Baldwinreadsthenovelas‘ametaphoricprojectionof the mystic way’, confidently declaring, for example, that the dim,intermittentlylit settingof thenovel is ‘undoubtedly thesecondDarkNightoftheSoul’(Baldwin1981,p.69),whilethemysterious‘master’spokenofinthenarrativeis‘undoubtedlyBeckett’(Baldwin1981,p.72).Andwhilewe’reaboutit, there can be ‘[n]o question but that the sealed jar is an analogue of theCrucifixion’ (Baldwin1981,p.76). Inamore recent exampleof thismodeofreadingGaryAdelmannamestheunnamedsubjectofthetextastheHolocaust,findinginitsnarratora‘newfigureofepicgrandeurfortheageofKafkaandthedeathcamps’(Adelman2004,p.84).

Another way of resisting the epistemological vortex of The Unnamable isprecisely by construing the text as epistemology itself, or someothermore orlessformalphilosophicalexercise.Thisapproachbecamepopularinthe1980s,duringwhichContinental philosophers such asBlanchot,Derrida andDeleuzeweredrawnupontodemonstratethatBeckett’sworkwasnotonlyamenabletoreading in the light of this philosophy, but actually was itself, reciprocally,already a kind of philosophy. This approach is a feature of the readings of

Beckett’strilogyofferedbyLeslieHill(1990)andThomasTrezise(1990)and,Ifear,myownefforts(Connor1988).

OneofthemostextraordinaryandpercipientsuchreadingsofTheUnnamablehad appeared much earlier, but remained latent until reactivated by thesephilosophical readers of the 1980s. It came from the French critic andphilosopherMauriceBlanchot,whohadwrittentoJeromeLindonofÉditionsdeMinuitinMay1953,askinghimforadvanceproofsofL’Innommable,onwhichhewasplanningtowriteanessay.TheessayappearedintheOctober1953issueof the Nouvelle Revue Française under the title ‘Où maintenant? Quimaintenant?’ (Blanchot 1953). Blanchot saw The Unnamable as the work inwhichBeckettattainedthequickoressenceofwriting,whichforBlanchotwassomething impersonal, indifferent. In order to reach this position, Blanchotwrote, it is necessary for Beckett first to adopt and then to abandon thereassuringmasksor subterfugesofplot, characterorperson.The rudimentsofthese still survive and reassure us in Molloy and Malone Dies. But in TheUnnamable,Blanchotobserves: ‘There isno longeranyquestionof charactersunderthereassuringprotectionofapersonalname,nolongeranyquestionofanarrative’ (Blanchot 2000, p. 96).More than this,we are evendenied the lastresortofstabilisingTheUnnamablearoundtheinviolablefirstpersonofSamuelBeckett, ‘where everything that happens happens with the guarantee of aconsciousness,inaworldthatsparesustheworstdegradation,thatoflosingthepowertosayI’(Blanchot2000,p.96).Rather,Blanchotinsists,TheUnnamablegetstotheheartofthingsbypressingthrough,beyondorbehindthefirstperson,to the anonymous, tormented space of writing itself, which animates allliterature, but is rarely, if ever, able to be grasped directly within the text.Perhaps thismeans thateven the ideaofTheUnnamable as a single, boundedworkisdissolved:

Perhapswearenotdealingwithabookatall,butwithsomethingmorethanabook:perhapsweareapproachingthemovementfromwhichallbooksderive,thatpointoforiginwhere,doubtless,theworkislost,thepointwhichalwaysruins thework, the point of perpetual unworkablenesswithwhich theworkmustmaintainanincreasinglyinitialrelationorriskbecomingnothingatall.(Blanchot2000,p.97)

But in seeming todisallow the fixingdownor location ina specific sourceofThe Unnamable, Blanchot nevertheless assimilates the text to his own

philosophy,ofthe‘neutral’,orthe‘indifferent’,anticipatingthemovesmadebyphilosophicalcriticsofthe1980sandbeyond.

For critics who tend towards the philosophical readings I have just beendescribing,andwhotendtoseeBeckett’smajorachievementasconcentratedinhis prose, The Unnamable has a special status as a kind of abstract orencyclopediaofBeckettianthemesandfeelings,thefullestandmostunflinchingenactmentofthe‘issuelesspredicament’thathisworkingeneralexplores.SuchcriticstendtotreatTheUnnamableasthematrix,oromphalos,aroundwhichallthe rest of Beckett’swork, both before and after, inevitably swirls, as thoughJoe, Winnie and all the rest of Beckett’s post-Unnamable creatures weredestinedtojoinMolloyandMaloneintheirconcentricorbitsaroundthisnovel’sdubiouslyspectatorialspeaker.

But therehavebeenother readerswhohave seen theveryextremityofTheUnnamable, itsmaximumofminimality,asproviding thedecisive impetus forthe thirty years of new and improbably various ways of ‘going on’ thatsucceeded it. For such critics, ‘going on’ has meant ‘going beyond’, or evengettingout fromunder,TheUnnamable. Perhaps themost influential of thesecritics in recent years has been the philosopher Alain Badiou. Badiou agreeswith other critics in seeing The Unnamable as a climax in Beckett’s work.However,Badiou attempts to alter the centreof gravityofBeckett studies, bydirectingattentiontothekindofworkthatfolloweduponTheUnnamable.ForBadiou,thisisworkthatisnolongerskeweredontheunresolvableexcruciationsofwhatthesubjectisandhowitistobespoken,butdealsinsteadwithwhathecalls the ‘occurrences’ of the subject, most notably in its encounters withotherness. ‘Instead of the useless and unending fictive reflection of the self’,writes Badiou, ‘the subject will be pinpointed according to the variety of itsdispositionsvis-à-visitsencounters–inthefaceof“what-comes-to-pass”,inthefaceofeverythingthatsupplementsBeingwiththeinstantaneoussurpriseofanOther’(Badiou2003,p.16).

Badiou describes himself as encountering Beckett through The Unnamableduring the 1950s, and being captivated by the vision he found there ofnothingnessanddereliction,avisionthat‘rathersuitedtheyoungcretinIwasatthetime’(Badiou2003,p.39).Fortyyearslater,Badioudismissesthisviewas‘a caricature’. In urging that we follow Beckett in moving beyond TheUnnamable,Badiouisalsourgingamovebeyondthekindoflanguage-centred

post-structuralist criticism that finds in The Unnamable its most completestatementofprinciple,caughtasitisinthesameinfatuation,thesame‘Cartesianterrorism’ (Badiou 2003, p. 55). In writing that ‘[i]t was important that thesubject open itself up to an alterity and cease being folded upon itself in aninterminable and torturous speech’ (Badiou 2003, p. 55), and insisting thatBecketthadinfactdoneso,BadiouisalsoreprovingagenerationofcriticswhohavefoundinTheUnnamablewhatheseesasasterilemodelforself-replicatingandultimatelyself-satisfiedscepticism.

Perhaps Beckett never againmade such intense demands on himself or hisreadersashedoesinTheUnnamable.Whenheturnedbacktoproseinearnest,it was in a very different manner from what he had discovered in TheUnnamable,which,inthissense,atleast,remainsakindofneplusultra.Thisisnotquitetosaythatithadnoissue,forinsomewaysthenovelmightbesaidtohaveseededmanyofthelaterworks.ThemonologueNotI,forexample,maybeseen as another attempt to dramatise the obstinate abstention from being thatcharacterisesthenovel.Inthissense,TheUnnamable remainsat theenigmaticheartofBeckett’swriting,andofcriticalwritingaboutBeckett.

References

Ackerley,ChrisandS.E.Gontarski(2004).TheGroveCompaniontoSamuelBeckett:AReader’sGuidetoHisWorks,Life,andThought.NewYork:GrovePress.

Adelman, Gary (2004). Naming Beckett’s Unnamable. Lewisburg: Bucknell University Press/London:AssociatedUniversityPresses.

Admussen,RichardL.(1979).TheSamuelBeckettManuscripts:AStudy.Boston,MA:G.K.HallandCo.

Badiou,Alain(2003).OnBeckett.Trans.NinaPowerandAlbertoToscano.London:ClinamenPress.

Badiou,Alain(1995).Beckett:L’increvabledesir.Paris:Hachette.

Baldwin,HélèneL.(1981).SamuelBeckett’sRealSilence.UniversityPark,PAandLondon:PennsylvaniaStateUniversityPress.

Beckett,Samuel(1958a).‘TheUnnamable.’TexasQuarterly,1,pp.129–31

———(1958b).‘Excerpt:TheUnnamable.’ChicagoReview,12.2,pp.82–6.

———(1958c).‘TheUnnamable.’Spectrum(SantaBarbara),2,pp.3–7.

———(1959a).Molloy.MaloneDies.TheUnnamable.ATrilogy.Paris:OlympiaPress.

———(1959b).Molloy.MaloneDies.TheUnnamable.London:CalderandBoyars.

———(1971).L’Innommable.Paris:ÉditionsdeMinuit.

Blanchot,Maurice(1953).‘Oùmaintenant?Quimaintenant?’NouvelleRevueFrançaise,2,pp.678–86.

——— (2000) ‘Where Now? Who Now?’ Trans. Richard Howard. Reprinted in Samuel Beckett, ed.JenniferBirkettandKateInce(LondonandNewYork:Longman),pp.93–8.

Connor,Steven(1988).SamuelBeckett:Repetition,TheoryandText.Oxford:Blackwell.

Gontarski,S.EandAnthonyUhlmann,eds.(2006).BeckettAfterBeckett.Gainesville:UniversityofFloridaPress.

Hill,Leslie(1990).Beckett’sFiction:InDifferentWords.Cambridge:CambridgeUniversityPress.

Kenner,Hugh(1973).AReader’sGuidetoSamuelBeckett.London:ThamesandHudson.

Pilling,John(2006).ASamuelBeckettChronology.Houndmills:MacmillanPalgrave.

Robinson,Michael(1969).TheLongSonataoftheDead:AStudyofSamuelBeckett.London:Hart-Davis.

Trezise, Thomas (1990). Into the Breach: Samuel Beckett and the Ends of Literature. Princeton, NJ:PrincetonUniversityPress.

Webb,Eugene(1970).SamuelBeckett:AStudyofHisNovels.London:PeterOwen.

TableofDates

Where unspecified, translations from French to English or vice versa are byBeckett.

1906 13April SamuelBeckett[SamuelBarclayBeckett]bornin‘Cooldrinagh’,a

houseinFoxrock,avillagesouthofDublin,onGoodFriday,thesecondchildofWilliamBeckettandMayBeckett,néeRoe;heisprecededbyabrother,FrankEdward,born26July1902.

1911 EnterskindergartenatIdaandPaulineElsner’sprivateacademyin

Leopardstown.1915 AttendslargerEarlsfortHouseSchoolin

Dublin.1920 FollowsFranktoPortoraRoyal,adistinguishedProtestantboarding

schoolinEnniskillen,CountyFermanagh(soontobecomepartofNorthernIreland).

1923 October EnrolsatTrinityCollegeDublin(TCD)tostudyforanArtsdegree.1926 August FirstvisittoFrance,amonth-longcyclingtouroftheLoireValley.1927 April–August

TravelsthroughFlorenceandVenice,visitingmuseums,galleriesandchurches.

December ReceivesBAinModernLanguages(FrenchandItalian)andgraduatesfirstintheFirstClass.

1928 Jan.–June

TeachesFrenchandEnglishatCampbellCollege,Belfast.

September FirsttriptoGermanytovisitseventeen-year-oldPeggySinclair,a

cousinonhisfather’sside,andherfamilyinKassel.1November

ArrivesinParisasanexchangelecteurattheÉcoleNormaleSupérieure.Quicklybecomesfriendswithhispredecessor,ThomasMcGreevy[after1943,MacGreevy],whointroducesBecketttoJamesJoyceandotherinfluentialanglophonewritersandpublishers.

December SpendsChristmasinKassel(asalsoin1929,1930and1931).1929 June Publishesfirstcriticalessay(‘Dante…Bruno.Vico..Joyce’)and

firststory(‘Assumption’)intransitionmagazine.1930 July Whoroscope(Paris:HoursPress).October ReturnstoTCDtobeginatwo-yearappointmentaslecturerin

French.November IntroducedbyMacGreevytothepainterandwriterJackB.Yeatsin

Dublin.1931 March Proust(London:Chatto&Windus).September FirstIrishpublication,thepoem‘Alba’inDublinMagazine.1932 January ResignshislectureshipviatelegramfromKasselandmovestoParis.Feb.–June Firstseriousattemptatanovel,theposthumouslypublishedDream

ofFairtoMiddlingWomen.December Story‘DanteandtheLobster’appearsinThisQuarter(Paris).1933 3May DeathofPeggySinclairfromtuberculosis.26June DeathofWilliamBeckettfromaheartattack.1934 January MovestoLondonandbeginspsychoanalysiswithWilfredBionat

theTavistockClinicFebruary NegroAnthology,editedbyNancyCunardandwithnumerous

translationsbyBeckettfromtheFrench(London:Wishart&Co.).May MorePricksThanKicks(London:Chatto&Windus).Aug.–Sept.

ContributesseveralstoriesandreviewstoliterarymagazinesinLondonandDublin.

1935

November Echo’sBonesandOtherPrecipitates,acycleofthirteenpoems

(Paris:EuropaPress).1936 ReturnstoDublin.29September

LeavesIrelandforaseven-monthstayinGermany.

Apr.–Aug. Firstseriousattemptataplay,HumanWishes,aboutSamuelJohnsonandhishousehold.

October SettlesinParis1938 6/7January

StabbedbyastreetpimpinMontparnasse.AmonghisvisitorsatHôpitalBroussaisisSuzanneDeschevaux-Dumesnil,anacquaintancewhoistobecomeBeckett’scompanionforlife.

March Murphy(London:Routledge).April BeginswritingpoetrydirectlyinFrench.1939 3September

GreatBritainandFrancedeclarewaronGermany.BeckettabruptlyendsavisittoIrelandandreturnstoParisthenextday.

1940 June TravelssouthwithSuzannefollowingtheFallofFrance,aspartof

theexodusfromthecapital.September ReturnstoParis.1941 13January

DeathofJamesJoyceinZurich.

1September

JoinstheResistancecellGloriaSMH.

1942 16August GoesintohidingwithSuzanneafterthearrestofclosefriendAlfred

Péron.6October ArrivalatRoussillon,asmallvillageinunoccupiedsouthernFrance.1944 24August LiberationofParis.1945 30March AwardedtheCroixdeGuerre.Aug.–Dec.

VolunteersasastorekeeperandinterpreterwiththeIrishRedCrossinSaint-Lô,Normandy.

1946

July PublishesfirstfictioninFrench–atruncatedversionoftheshortstory‘Suite’(latertobecome‘LaFin’)inLesTempsmodernes,owingtoamisunderstandingbyeditors–aswellasacriticalessayonDutchpaintersGeerandBramvanVeldeinCahiersd’art.

1947 Jan.–Feb. Writesfirstplay,inFrench,Eleuthéria(publishedposthumously).April Murphy,Frenchtranslation(Paris:Bordas).1948 UndertakesanumberoftranslationscommissionedbyUNESCO

andbyGeorgesDuthuit.1950 25August DeathofMayBeckett.1951 March Molloy,inFrench(Paris:LesÉditionsdeMinuit).November Malonemeurt(Paris:Minuit).1952 PurchaseslandatUssy-sur-Marne,subsequentlyBeckett’spreferred

locationforwriting.September EnattendantGodot(Paris:Minuit).1953 5January PremiereofGodotattheThéâtredeBabyloneinMontparnasse,

directedbyRogerBlin.May L’Innommable(Paris:Minuit).August Watt,inEnglish(Paris:OlympiaPress).1954 8September

WaitingforGodot(NewYork:GrovePress).

13September

DeathofFrankBeckettfromlungcancer.

1955 March Molloy,translatedintoEnglishwithPatrickBowles(NewYork:

Grove;Paris:Olympia).3August FirstEnglishproductionofGodotopensinLondonattheArts

Theatre.November NouvellesetTextespourrien(Paris:Minuit).1956

3January AmericanGodotpremiereinMiami.February FirstBritishpublicationofWaitingforGodot(London:Faber).October MaloneDies(NewYork:Grove).1957 January Firstradiobroadcast,AllThatFallontheBBCThirdProgramme.

Findepartie,suivideActesansparoles(Paris:Minuit).28March DeathofJackB.Yeats.August AllThatFall(London:Faber).October Tousceuxquitombent,translationofAllThatFallwithRobert

Pinget(Paris:Minuit).1958 April Endgame,translationofFindepartie(London:Faber).

FromanAbandonedWork(London:Faber).July Krapp’sLastTapeinGrovePress’sliterarymagazine,Evergreen

Review.September TheUnnamable(NewYork:Grove).December AnthologyofMexicanPoetry,translatedbyBeckett(Bloomington,

Ind.:IndianaUniversityPress;laterreprintedinLondonbyThames&Hudson).

1959 March LaDernièrebande,translationofKrapp’sLastTapewithPierre

Leyris,intheParisianliterarymagazineLesLettresnouvelles.2July ReceiveshonoraryD.Litt.degreefromTrinityCollegeDublin.November EmbersinEvergreenReview.December Cendres,translationofEmberswithPinget,inLesLettresnouvelles.

ThreeNovels:Molloy,MaloneDies,TheUnnamable(NewYork:Grove;Paris:OlympiaPress).

1961 January Commentc’est(Paris:Minuit).24March MarriesSuzanneatFolkestone,Kent.May SharesPrixInternationaldesEditeurswithJorgeLuisBorges.August PoemsinEnglish(London:Calder).September HappyDays(NewYork:Grove).1963 February Ohlesbeauxjours,translationofHappyDays

(Paris:Minuit).May AssistswiththeGermanproductionofPlay(Spiel,translatedby

ElmarandErikaTophoven)inUlm.22May OutlineofFilmsenttoGrovePress.Filmwouldbeproducedin

1964,starringBusterKeaton,andreleasedattheVeniceFilmFestivalthefollowingyear.

1964 March PlayandTwoShortPiecesforRadio(London:Faber).April HowItIs,translationofCommentc’est(London:Calder;NewYork:

Grove).June Comédie,translationofPlay,inLesLettresnouvelles.July–Aug. FirstandonlytriptotheUnitedStates,toassistwiththeproduction

ofFilminNewYork.1965 October Imaginationmorteimaginez(Paris:Minuit).November ImaginationDeadImagine(London:TheSundayTimes;Calder).1966 January ComédieetActesdivers,includingDisJoeandVaetvient(Paris:

Minuit).February Assez(Paris:Minuit).October Bing(Paris:Minuit).1967 February D’unouvrageabandonné(Paris:Minuit)

Têtes-mortes(Paris:Minuit).16March DeathofThomasMacGreevy.June EhJoeandOtherWritings,includingActWithoutWordsIIandFilm

(London:Faber).July ComeandGo,EnglishtranslationofVaetvient(London:Calder).26September

Directsfirstsoloproduction,Endspiel(translationofEndgamebyElmarTophoven)inBerlin.

NovemberNo’sKnife:CollectedShorterProse,1945–1966(London:Calder).December StoriesandTextsforNothing,illustratedwithsixinklinedrawings

byAvigdorArikha(NewYork:Grove).1968 March Poèmes(Paris:Minuit).December Watt,translatedintoFrenchwithLudovicandAgnèsJanvier(Paris:

Minuit).1969

23October

AwardedtheNobelPrizeforLiterature.Sans(Paris:Minuit).

1970 April MercieretCamier(Paris:Minuit).

Premieramour(Paris:Minuit).July Lessness,translationofSans(London:Calder).September LeDépeupleur(Paris:Minuit).1972 January TheLostOnes,translationofLeDépeupleur(London:Calder;New

York:Grove).TheNorth,partofTheLostOnes,illustratedwithetchingsbyArikha(London:EnitharmonPress).

1973 January NotI(London:Faber).July FirstLove(London:Calder).1974 MercierandCamier(London:Calder).1975 Spring DirectsGodotinBerlinandPasmoi(translationofNotI)inParis.1976 February Pourfinirencoreetautresfoirades(Paris:Minuit).20May DirectsBillieWhitelawinFootfalls,whichisperformedwithThat

TimeatLondon’sRoyalCourtTheatreinhonourofBeckett’sseventiethbirthday.

Autumn AllStrangeAway,illustratedwithetchingsbyEdwardGorey(NewYork:GothamBookMart).Foirades/Fizzles,inFrenchandEnglish,illustratedwithetchingsbyJasperJohns(NewYork:PetersburgPress).

December Footfalls(London:Faber).1977 March CollectedPoemsinEnglishandFrench(London:Calder;New

York:Grove).1978 May Pas,translationofFootfalls(Paris:Minuit).August Poèmes,suividemirlitonnades(Paris:Minuit).1980 January Compagnie(Paris:Minuit).

Company(London:Calder).May DirectsEndgameinLondonwithRickClucheyandtheSanQuentin

DramaWorkshop.1981 March Malvumaldit(Paris:Minuit).April RockabyandOtherShortPieces(NewYork:Grove).October IllSeenIllSaid,translationofMalvumaldit(NewYork:New

Yorker;Grove).1983 April WorstwardHo(London:Calder).September Disjecta:MiscellaneousWritingsandaDramaticFragment,

containingcriticalessaysonartandliteratureaswellastheunfinishedplayHumanWishes(London:Calder).

1984 February OverseesSanQuentinDramaWorkshopproductionofGodot,

directedbyWalterAsmus,inLondon.CollectedShorterPlays(London:Faber;NewYork:Grove).

May CollectedPoems,1930–1978(London:Calder).July CollectedShorterProse,1945–1980(London:Calder).1989 April StirringsStill,withillustrationsbyLouisleBrocquy(NewYork:

BlueMoonBooks).June NohowOn:Company,IllSeenIllSaid,WorstwardHo,illustrated

withetchingsbyRobertRyman(NewYork:LimitedEditionsClub).17July DeathofSuzanneBeckett.22December

DeathofSamuelBeckett.BurialinCimetièredeMontparnasse.

*

1990 AstheStoryWasTold:UncollectedandLateProse(London:

Calder;NewYork:RiverrunPress).1992 DreamofFairtoMiddlingWomen(Dublin:BlackCatPress).1995 Eleuthéria(Paris:Minuit).

1996 Eleuthéria,translatedintoEnglishbyBarbaraWright(London:

Faber).1998 NoAuthorBetterServed:TheCorrespondenceofSamuelBeckett

andAlanSchneider,editedbyMauriceHarmon(Cambridge,Mass.:HarvardUniversityPress).

2000 BeckettonFilm:nineteenfilms,bydifferentdirectors,ofBeckett’s

worksforthestage(RTÉ,Channel4andIrishFilmBoard;DVD,London:ClarencePictures).

2006 SamuelBeckett:WorksforRadio:TheOriginalBroadcasts:five

worksspanningtheperiod1957–1976(CD,London:BritishLibraryBoard).

2009 TheLettersofSamuelBeckett,1929–1940,editedbyMarthaDow

FehsenfeldandLoisMoreOverbeck(Cambridge:CambridgeUniversityPress).

CompiledbyCassandraNelson

ManuscriptofopeningpageofL’Innommable(TheUnnamable)CourtesyoftheBeckettInternationalFoundation,Universityof

Reading.©TheEstateofSamuelBeckett.

Where now? Who now? When now? Unquestioning. I, say I. Unbelieving.Questions,hypotheses,callthemthat.Keepgoing,goingon,callthatgoing,callthaton.Canitbethatoneday,offitgoeson,thatonedayIsimplystayedin,inwhere, insteadofgoingout, in theoldway,out to spenddayandnight as farawayaspossible,itwasn’tfar.Perhapsthatishowitbegan.Youthinkyouaresimplyresting,thebettertoactwhenthetimecomes,orfornoreason,andyousoon find yourself powerless ever to do anything again. No matter how ithappened. It, say it,notknowingwhat.Perhaps I simplyassentedat last toanoldthing.ButIdidnothing.Iseemtospeak,itisnotI,aboutme,itisnotaboutme.Thesefewgeneralremarkstobeginwith.WhatamItodo,whatshallIdo,whatshouldIdo,inmysituation,howproceed?Byaporiapureandsimple?Orby affirmations and negations invalidated as uttered, or sooner or later?Generally speaking. There must be other shifts. Otherwise it would be quitehopeless.Butitisquitehopeless.Ishouldmentionbeforegoinganyfurther,anyfurtheron,thatIsayaporiawithoutknowingwhatitmeans.Canonebeephecticotherwisethanunawares?Idon’tknow.Withtheyessesandnoesitisdifferent,theywillcomebacktomeasIgoalongandhow,likeabird,toshitonthemallwithoutexception.Thefactwouldseemtobe,ifinmysituationonemayspeakoffacts,notonlythatIshallhavetospeakofthingsofwhichIcannotspeak,butalso,which is evenmore interesting, but also that I,which is if possible evenmoreinteresting,thatIshallhaveto,Iforget,nomatter.AndatthesametimeIamobligedtospeak.Ishallneverbesilent.Never.

I shall not be alone, in the beginning. I amof course alone.Alone.That issoon said. Things have to be soon said. And how can one be sure, in suchdarkness? I shall have company. In the beginning. A few puppets. Then I’llscatter them, to thewinds, if I can.And things,what is the correct attitude toadopttowardsthings?And,tobeginwith,aretheynecessary?Whataquestion.But I have few illusions, things are to be expected. The best is not to decideanything,inthisconnection,inadvance.Ifathingturnsup,forsomereasonoranother, take it intoconsideration.Where therearepeople, it is said, therearethings.Doesthismeanthatwhenyouadmittheformeryoumustalsoadmitthelatter? Time will tell. The thing to avoid, I don’t know why, is the spirit of

system.Peoplewith things,peoplewithout things, thingswithoutpeople,whatdoesitmatter,Iflattermyselfitwillnottakemelongtoscatterthem,wheneverIchoose, to thewinds. Idon’tseehow.Thebestwouldbenot tobegin.But Ihavetobegin.ThatistosayIhavetogoon.PerhapsintheendIshallsmotherinathrong.Incessantcomingsandgoings,thecrushandbustleofabargainsale.No,nodanger.Ofthat.

Maloneisthere.Ofhismortallivelinesslittletraceremains.Hepassesbeforemeatdoubtless regular intervals,unless it is Iwhopassbeforehim.No,onceandforall,Idonotmove.Hepasses,motionless.Buttherewillnotbemuchonthe subject of Malone, from whom there is nothing further to be hoped.Personally I do not intend to be bored. Itwaswhilewatching himpass that Iwonderedifwecastashadow.Impossibletosay.Hepassesclosebyme,afewfeetaway,slowly,always in thesamedirection.Iamalmostsure it ishe.Thebrimlesshatseems tomeconclusive.Withhis twohandshepropsuphis jaw.Hepasseswithoutaword.Perhapshedoesnot seeme.Oneof thesedays I’llchallengehim.I’llsay,Idon’tknow,I’llsaysomething,I’llthinkofsomethingwhenthetimecomes.Therearenodayshere,butIusetheexpression.Iseehimfromthewaistup,hestopsatthewaist,asfarasIamconcerned.The trunk iserect.ButIdonotknowwhetherheisonhisfeetoronhisknees.Hemightalsobeseated.Iseehiminprofile.SometimesIwonderifitisnotMolloy.Perhapsitis Molloy, wearing Malone’s hat. But it is more reasonable to suppose it isMalone,wearinghisownhat.Oh look, there is the first thing,Malone’shat. Iseenootherclothes.PerhapsMolloyisnothereatall.Couldhebe,withoutmyknowledge?Theplaceisnodoubtvast.Dimintermittentlightssuggestakindofdistance.TotellthetruthIbelievetheyareallhere,atleastfromMurphyon,Ibelieveweareallhere,butsofarIhaveonlyseenMalone.Anotherhypothesis,theywerehere,butareherenolonger.Ishallexamineitaftermyfashion.Arethereotherpits,deeperdown?Towhichoneaccedesbymine?Stupidobsessionwithdepth.ArethereotherplacessetasideforusandthisonewhereIam,withMalone,merelytheirnarthex?IthoughtIhaddonewithpreliminaries.No,no,wehaveallbeenhereforever,weshallallbehereforever,Iknowit.

Nomorequestions.Isnotthisrathertheplacewhereonefinishesvanishing?Will the day comewhenMalonewill pass beforeme nomore?Will the daycomewhenMalonewillpassbefore the spotwhere Iwas?Will thedaycomewhen another will pass before me, before the spot where I was? I have no

opinion,onthesematters.

WereInotdevoidoffeelinghisbeardwouldfillmewithpity.Ithangsdown,oneithersideofhischin,intwotwistsofunequallength.WasthereatimewhenItoorevolved thus?No, Ihavealwaysbeensittinghere,at thisselfsamespot,myhandsonmyknees,gazingbeforemelikeagreathorn-owlinanaviary.Thetearsstreamdownmycheeksfrommyunblinkingeyes.Whatmakesmeweepso?Fromtimetotime.Thereisnothingsaddeninghere.Perhapsit is liquefiedbrain.Pasthappinessinanycasehascleangonefrommymemory,assumingitwasever there. If I accomplishothernatural functions it isunawares.Nothingevertroublesme.AndyetIamtroubled.NothinghaseverchangedsinceIhavebeenhere.ButIdarenotinferfromthisthatnothingeverwillchange.Letustryandseewheretheseconsiderationslead.Ihavebeenhere,eversinceIbegantobe, my appearances elsewhere having been put in by other parties. All hasproceeded,allthis time, in theutmostcalm, themostperfectorder,apart fromoneor twomanifestations themeaningofwhichescapesme.No, it isnot thattheirmeaningescapesme,myownescapesmejustasmuch.Hereallthings,no,Ishallnotsayit,beingunableto.Iowemyexistencetonoone,thesefaintfiresarenotofthosethatilluminateorburn.Goingnowhere,comingfromnowhere,Malonepasses.Thesenotionsofforbears,ofhouseswherelampsarelitatnight,andothersuch,wheredotheycometomefrom?AndallthesequestionsIaskmyself.Itisnotinaspiritofcuriosity.Icannotbesilent.AboutmyselfIneedknownothing.Hereall isclear.No,all isnotclear.But thediscoursemustgoon.Soone inventsobscurities.Rhetoric.These lights for instance,which I donotrequiretomeananything,whatistheresostrangeaboutthem,sowrong?Isittheirirregularity,theirinstability,theirshiningstrongoneminuteandweakthenext,butneverbeyond thepowerofoneor twocandles?Malone appears anddisappearswith the punctuality of clockwork, always at the same remove, thesamevelocity,inthesamedirection,thesameattitude.Buttheplayofthelightsistrulyunpredictable.Itisonlyfairtosaythattoeyeslessknowingthanminetheywouldprobablypassunseen.Buteven tominedo theynotsometimesdoso?Theyareperhapsunwaveringandfixedandmyfitfulperceivingthecauseoftheir inconstancy. Ihope Imayhaveoccasion to revert to this question.But Ishall remarkwithout further delay, in order to be sure of doing so, that I amrelying on these lights, as indeed on all other similar sources of credibleperplexity,tohelpmecontinueandperhapsevenconclude.Iresume,havingnoalternative.Where was I? Ah yes, from the unexceptionable order which has

prevailedhereuptodatemayIinferthatsuchwillalwaysbethecase?Imayofcourse.Butthemerefactofaskingmyselfsuchaquestiongivesmetoreflect.ItisinvainItellmyselfthatitsonlypurposeistostimulatethelaggingdiscourse,this excellent explanation does not satisfy me. Can it be I am the prey of agenuinepreoccupation,ofaneedtoknowasonemightsay?Idon’tknow.I’lltry it another way. If one day a change were to take place, resulting from aprincipleofdisorderalreadypresent,oronitsway,whatthen?Thatwouldseemtodependon thenatureof thechange.No,hereallchangewouldbefatalandlandmeback,thereandthen,inallthefunofthefair.I’lltryitanotherway.HasnothingreallychangedsinceIhavebeenhere?No,frankly,handonheart,waitasecond,no,nothing,tomyknowledge.But,asIhavesaid,theplacemaywellbevast,asitmaywellmeasuretwelvefeetindiameter.Itcomestothesamething,asfarasdiscerningitslimitsisconcerned.IliketothinkIoccupythecentre,butnothing is less certain. In a sense I would be better off at the circumference,sincemyeyesarealwaysfixedinthesamedirection.ButIamcertainlynotatthecircumference.ForifIwereitwouldfollowthatMalone,wheelingaboutmeas he does, would issue from the enceinte at every revolution, which ismanifestly impossible.But does he in factwheel, does he not perhaps simplypassbeforemeinastraightline?No,hewheels,Ifeelit,andaboutme,likeaplanetaboutitssun.Andifhemadeanoise,ashegoes,Iwouldhearhimallthetime, onmy right hand, behindmy back, onmy left hand, before seeing himagain.Buthemakesnone,forIamnotdeaf,of thatIamconvinced, that is tosayhalf-convinced.FromcentretocircumferenceinanycaseitisafarcryandImaywellbesituatedsomewherebetweenthetwo.Itisequallypossible,Idonotdenyit,thatItooaminperpetualmotion,accompaniedbyMalone,astheearthby its moon. In which case there would be no further grounds for mycomplaining about the disorder of the lights, this being due simply to myinsistenceonregardingthemasalwaysthesamelightsandviewedalwaysfromthesamepoint.All ispossible,oralmost.But thebest is to thinkofmyselfasfixedandatthecentreofthisplace,whateveritsshapeandextentmaybe.Thisisalsoprobablythemostpleasingtome.Inaword,nochangeapparentlysinceIhavebeenhere,disorderofthelightsperhapsanillusion,allchangetobefeared,incomprehensibleuneasiness.

ThatIamnotstonedeafisshownbythesoundsthatreachme.Forthoughthesilence here is almost unbroken, it is not completely so. I remember the firstsoundheardinthisplace,Ihaveoftenhearditsince.ForIamobligedtoassigna

beginning to my residence here, if only for the sake of clarity. Hell itself,althougheternal,datesfromtherevoltofLucifer.Itisthereforepermissible,inthelightofthisdistantanalogy,tothinkofmyselfasbeinghereforever,butnotashavingbeenhereforever.Thiswillgreatlyhelpmeinmyrelation.Memorynotably,whichIdidnotthinkmyselfentitledtodrawupon,willhaveitswordtosay, ifnecessary.This representsat leasta thousandwords Iwasnotcountingon.Imaywellbegladofthem.Soaftera longperiodof immaculatesilenceafeeble cry was heard, by me. I do not know if Malone heard it too. I wassurprised,thewordisnottoostrong.Aftersolongasilencealittlecry,stifledoutright.Whatkindofcreatureuttereditand, if it is thesame,stilldoes, fromtime to time? Impossible to say. Not a human one in any case, there are nohumancreatureshere,oriftherearetheyhavedonewithcrying.IsMalonetheculprit? Am I? Is it not perhaps a simple little fart, they can be rending?Deplorablemania,whensomethinghappens,toinquirewhat.IfonlyIwerenotobligedtomanifest.Andwhyspeakofacry?Perhapsitissomethingbreaking,some two things colliding. There are sounds here, from time to time, let thatsuffice.Thiscrytobeginwith,sinceitwasthefirst.Andothers,ratherdifferent.Iamgettingtoknowthem.Idonotknowthemall.AmanmaydieattheageofseventywithouteverhavinghadthepossibilityofseeingHalley’scomet.

Itwouldhelpme,sincetometooImustattributeabeginning,ifIcouldrelateittothatofmyabode.DidIwaitsomewhereforthisplacetobereadytoreceiveme? Or did it wait for me to come and people it? By far the better of thesehypotheses,fromthepointofviewofusefulness,istheformer,andIshalloftenhaveoccasiontofallbackonit.Butbotharedistasteful.Ishallsaythereforethatour beginnings coincide, that this placewasmade forme, and I for it, at thesameinstant.AndthesoundsIdonotyetknowhavenotyetmadethemselvesheard. But theywill change nothing. The cry changed nothing, even the firsttime.Andmysurprise?Imusthavebeenexpectingit.

ItisnodoubttimeIgaveacompaniontoMalone.ButfirstIshalltellofanincident that has only occurred once, so far. I await its recurrence withoutimpatience.Twoshapesthen,oblonglikeman,enteredintocollisionbeforeme.They fell and I saw them no more. I naturally thought of the pseudocoupleMercier-Camier.Thenexttimetheyenterthefield,movingslowlytowardseachother, I shall know they are going to collide, fall and disappear, and thiswillperhapsenablemetoobservethembetter.Wrong.IcontinuetoseeMaloneas

darklyasthefirsttime.MyeyesbeingfixedalwaysinthesamedirectionIcanonlysee,Ishallnotsayclearly,butasclearlyasthevisibilitypermits,thatwhichtakesplaceimmediatelyinfrontofme,thatistosay,inthecasebeforeus,thecollision,followedbythefallanddisappearance.OftheirapproachIshallneverobtainotherthanaconfusedglimpse,outofthecorneroftheeye,andwhataneye.Fortheirpathtoomustbeacurve,twocurves,andmeetingIneednotsayclose besideme. For the visibility, unless it be the state ofmy eyesight, onlypermitsmetoseewhatisclosebesideme.Imayaddthatmyseatwouldappeartobesomewhatelevated,inrelationtothesurroundingground,ifgroundiswhatit is.Perhaps it iswater or someother liquid.With the result that, inorder toobtain theoptimumviewofwhat takesplace in front ofme, I shouldhave tolowermyeyesalittle.ButIlowermyeyesnomore.Inaword,Ionlyseewhatappears immediately in front ofme, I only seewhat appears close besideme,whatIbestseeIseeill.

Whydid Ihavemyself represented in themidstofmen, the lightofday? Itseemstomeitwasnoneofmydoing.Wewon’tgointothatnow.Icanseethemstill,mydelegates.Thethingstheyhavetoldme!Aboutmen,thelightofday.Irefused to believe them. But some of it has stuck. But when, through whatchannels, did I communicate with these gentlemen? Did they intrude on mehere?No,noonehaseverintrudedonmehere.Elsewherethen.ButIhaveneverbeenelsewhere.ButitcanonlyhavebeenfromthemIlearntwhatIknowaboutmenandthewaystheyhaveofputtingupwithit.Itdoesnotamounttomuch.Icouldhavedispensedwithit.Idon’tsayitwasalltonopurpose.I’llmakeuseofit,ifI’mdriventoit.Itwon’tbethefirsttime.Whatpuzzlesmeisthethoughtofbeing indebted for this information topersonswithwhomIcanneverhavebeen in contact.Can it be innateknowledge?Like thatofgoodandevil.Thisseems improbable tome. Innateknowledgeofmymother, forexample, is thatconceivable? Not for me. She was one of their favourite subjects, ofconversation. They also gave me the low-down on God. They told me Idependedonhim,inthelastanalysis.TheyhaditonthereliableauthorityofhisagentsatBallyIforgetwhat,thisbeingtheplace,accordingtothem,wheretheinestimablegiftof lifehadbeen rammeddownmygullet.Butwhat theyweremostdeterminedformetoswallowwasmyfellow-creatures.In this theywerewithout mercy. I remember little or nothing of these lectures. I cannot haveunderstoodagreatdeal.ButIseemtohaveretainedcertaindescriptions,inspiteofmyself.Theygavemecoursesonlove,onintelligence,mostprecious,most

precious.Theyalsotaughtmetocount,andeventoreason.Someofthisrubbishhas come in handy on occasions, I don’t deny it, on occasions which wouldneverhavearisen if theyhad leftme inpeace. Iuse it still, toscratchmyarsewith.Lowtypestheymusthavebeen,theirpocketsfullofpoisonandantidote.Perhapsallthisinstructionwasbycorrespondence.AndyetIseemtoknowtheirfaces.Fromphotographsperhaps.Whendidall thisnonsensestop?Andhas itstopped?A few last questions. Is itmerely a lull? Therewere four or five ofthem atme, they called that presenting their report. One in particular, Basil Ithinkhewascalled,filledmewithhatred.Withoutopeninghismouth,fasteningonmehis eyes like cinderswith all their seeing, he changedme a littlemoreeach time into what he wanted me to be. Is he still glaring at me, from theshadows?Ishestillusurpingmyname,theonetheyfoistedonme,upthereintheir world, patiently, from season to season? No no, here I am in safety,amusingmyselfwonderingwhocanhavedealtmetheseinsignificantwounds.

The other advances full upon me. He emerges as from heavy hangings,advancesafewsteps,looksatme,thenbacksaway.Heisstoopingandseemstobedragginginvisibleburdens.WhatIseebestishishat.Thecrownisallwornthrough,likethesoleofanoldboot,givingventtoastraggleofgreyhairs.HeraiseshiseyesandIfeelthelongimploringgaze,asifIcoulddosomethingforhim.Anotherimpression,nodoubtequallyfalse,hebringsmepresentsanddarenotgivethem.Hetakesthemawayagain,orheletsthemfall,andtheyvanish.Hedoesnotcomeoften,Icannotbemoreprecise,butregularlyassuredly.Hisvisit has never coincided, up to now,with the transit ofMalone. But perhapssome day it will. That would not necessarily be a violation of the orderprevailinghere.ForifIcanworkouttowithinafewinchestheorbitofMalone,assumingperhapserroneouslythathepassesbeforemeatadistanceofsaythreefeet, with regard to the other’s career I must remain in the dark. For I amincapablenotonlyofmeasuring time,which in itself is sufficient to vitiate allcalculationinthisconnection,butalsoofcomparingtheirrespectivevelocities.SoIcannot tell if Ishalleverhave thegoodfortune tosee the twoof thematonce.But I am inclined to think I shall. For if Iwerenever to see the twoofthem at once, then it would follow, or should follow, that between theirrespectiveappearancestheintervalnevervaries.No,wrong.Fortheintervalmayvary considerably, and indeed it seems to me it does, without ever beingabolished.Nevertheless I am inclined to think, because of this erratic interval,thatmy twovisitorsmay somedaymeet beforemy eyes, collide andperhaps

even knock each other down. I have said that all things here recur sooner orlater,no,Iwasgoingtosayit,thenthoughtbetterofit.Butisitnotpossiblethatthisdoesnotapplytoencounters?TheonlyencounterIeverwitnessed,a longtime ago now, has never yet been re-enacted. It was perhaps the end ofsomething.And I shallperhapsbedeliveredofMaloneand theother,not thattheydisturbme,thedayIseethetwoofthematoneandthesametime,thatistosay in collision. Unfortunately they are not the only disturbers of my peace.Otherscometowardsme,passbeforeme,wheelaboutme.Andnodoubtothersstill,invisiblesofar.Irepeattheydonotdisturbme.Butinthelongrunitmightbecome wearisome. I don’t see how. But the possibility must be taken intoaccount.One starts thingsmovingwithout a thought of how to stop them. Inorder to speak.One starts speaking as if itwere possible to stop atwill. It isbetterso.Thesearchforthemeanstoputanendtothings,anendtospeech,iswhatenablesthediscoursetocontinue.No,Imustnottrytothink,simplyutter.MethodornomethodIshallhavetobanishthemintheend,thebeings,things,shapes, sounds and lightswithwhichmy haste to speak has encumbered thisplace.Inthefrenzyofutterancetheconcernwithtruth.Hencetheinterestofapossible deliverance bymeans of encounter. But not so fast. First dirty, thenmakeclean.

Perhaps it is time Ipaid a little attention tomyself, for a change. I shall bereducedtoitsoonerorlater.Atfirstsightitseemsimpossible.Me,utterme,inthesamefoulbreathasmycreatures?Sayofme that Isee this, feel that, fear,hope,knowanddonotknow?Yes,Iwillsayit,andofmealone.Impassive,stillandmute,Malonerevolves,astrangerforevertomyinfirmities,onewhoisnotasIcannevernotbe. Iammotionless invain,he is thegod.Andtheother? Ihaveassignedhimeyesthatimploreme,offeringsforme,needofsuccour.Hedoesnot lookatme,doesnotknowofme,wantsfornothing.Ialoneammanandalltherestdivine.

Air,theair,isthereanythingtobesqueezedfromthatoldchestnut?Closetome it is grey, dimly transparent, and beyond that charmed circle deepens andspreadsitsfineimpenetrableveils.IsitIwhocastthefaintlightthatenablesmeto see what goes on under my nose? There is nothing to be gained, for themoment,bysupposingso.Thereisnonightsodeep,soIhaveheardtell,thatitmaynotbepierced in theend,with thehelpofnoother light than thatof theblackened sky, or of the earth itself. Nothing nocturnal here. This grey, first

murky,thenfranklyopaque,isluminousnonetheless.Butmaynotthisscreenwhichmyeyesprobeinvain,andseeasdenserair, inrealitybe theenclosurewall,ascompactas lead?Toelucidate thispoint Iwouldneedastickorpole,andthemeansofplyingit,theformerbeingoflittleavailwithoutthelatter,andviceversa.Icouldalsodo,incidentally,withfutureandconditionalparticiples.ThenIwoulddart it, likeajavelin,straightbeforemeandknow,bythesoundmade,whether thatwhich hemsme round, andblots outmyworld, is the oldvoid,oraplenum.Orelse,without letting itgo, Iwouldwield it likeaswordandthrustitthroughemptyair,oragainstthebarrier.Butthedaysofsticksareover, here I can count onmy body alone,my body incapable of the smallestmovement and whose very eyes can no longer close as they once could,accordingtoBasilandhiscrew,torestmefromseeing,torestmefromwaking,todarkenmetosleep,andnolongerlookaway,ordown,orupopentoheaven,but must remain forever fixed and staring on the narrow space before themwherethereisnothingtobeseen,99percentofthetime.Theymustbeasredaslivecoals.Isometimeswonderifthetworetinaearenotfacingeachother.Andcometothinkofitthisgreyisshotwithrose,liketheplumageofcertainbirds,amongwhichIseemtorememberthecockatoo.

Whetherallgrowblack,orallgrowbright,orall remaingrey, it isgreyweneed,tobeginwith,becauseofwhatitis,andofwhatitcando,madeofbrightandblack,abletoshedtheformer,orthelatter,andbethelatterortheformeralone. But perhaps I am the prey, on the subject of grey, in the grey, todelusions.

How, in suchconditions, can Iwrite, to consideronly themanual aspectofthatbitterfolly?Idon’tknow.Icouldknow.ButIshallnotknow.Notthistime.ItisIwhowrite,whocannotraisemyhandfrommyknee.ItisIwhothink,justenough towrite,whose head is far. I amMatthew and I am the angel, Iwhocamebeforethecross,beforethesinning,cameintotheworld,camehere.

Iaddthis,tobeonthesafeside.ThesethingsIsay,andshallsay,ifIcan,arenolonger,orarenotyet,orneverwere,orneverwillbe,oriftheywere,iftheyare,iftheywillbe,werenothere,arenothere,willnotbehere,butelsewhere.ButIamhere.SoIamobligedtoaddthis. Iwhoamhere,whocannotspeak,cannotthink,andwhomustspeak,andthereforeperhapsthinkalittle,cannotinrelationonlytomewhoamhere,toherewhereIam,butcanalittle,sufficiently,Idon’tknowhow,unimportant,inrelationtomewhowaselsewhere,whoshall

beelsewhere,andtothoseplaceswhereIwas,whereIshallbe.ButIhaveneverbeenelsewhere,howeveruncertain the future.And the simplest therefore is tosaythatwhatIsay,whatIshallsay,ifIcan,relatestotheplacewhereIam,tomewhoamthere,inspiteofmyinabilitytothinkofthese,ortospeakofthem,becauseof thecompulsionIamunder tospeakof them,andthereforeperhapsthinkofthemalittle.Anotherthing.WhatIsay,whatImaysay,onthissubject,thesubjectofmeandmyabode,hasalreadybeensaidsince,havingalwaysbeenhere,Iamherestill.Atlastapieceofreasoningthatpleasesme,andworthyofmysituation.SoIhavenocauseforanxiety.AndyetIamanxious.SoIamnotheadingfordisaster,Iamnotheadinganywhere,myadventuresareover,mysaysaid, I call thatmy adventures.And yet I feel not.And indeed I greatly fear,sincemyspeechcanonlybeofmeandhere, that I amoncemoreengaged inputting an end to both. Which would not matter, far from it, but for theobligation,onceridof them, tobeginagain, tostartagainfromnowhere, fromnooneandfromnothingandwintomeagain,tomehereagain,byfreshwaystobesure,orbytheancientways,unrecognisableateachfreshfaring.Whenceacertain confusion in the exordia, long enough to situate the condemned andprepare him for execution. And yet I do not despair of one day sparing me,withoutgoingsilent.Andthatday,Idon’tknowwhy,Ishallbeabletogosilent,andmakeanend, Iknowit.Yes, thehope is there,onceagain,ofnotmakingme,notlosingme,ofstayinghere,whereIsaidIhavealwaysbeen,butIhadtosay something quick, of ending here, it would be wonderful. But is it to bewished?Yes,itistobewished,toendwouldbewonderful,nomatterwhoIam,nomatterwhereIam.

Ihopethispreamblewillsooncometoanendandthestatementbeginthatwilldisposeofme.UnfortunatelyIamafraid,asalways,ofgoingon.Fortogoonmeansgoingfromhere,meansfindingme,losingme,vanishingandbeginningagain,astranger first, then littleby little thesameasalways, inanotherplace,where I shall say I have always been, of which I shall know nothing, beingincapableofseeing,moving, thinking,speaking,butofwhich littleby little, inspiteofthesehandicaps,Ishallbegintoknowsomething, justenoughforit toturnouttobethesameplaceasalways,thesamewhichseemsmadeformeanddoes notwantme,which I seem to want and do not want, take your choice,which spews me out or swallows me up, I’ll never know, which is perhapsmerelytheinsideofmydistantskullwhereonceIwandered,nowamfixed,lostfortininess,orstrainingagainstthewalls,withmyhead,myhands,myfeet,myback, and evermurmuringmyold stories,myold story, as if itwere the firsttime.Sothereisnothingtobeafraidof.AndyetIamafraid,afraidofwhatmywordswilldotome,tomyrefuge,yetagain.Istherereallynothingnewtotry?Imentionedmyhope,but it isnotserious.If Icouldspeakandyetsaynothing,reallynothing?ThenImightescapebeinggnawedtodeathasbyanoldsatiatedrat,andmylittletester-bedalongwithme,acradle,orbegnawedtodeathnotsofast, inmyoldcradle,andthetornfleshhavetimetoknit,as in theCaucasus,beforebeing tornagain.But it seems impossible tospeakandyetsaynothing,youthinkyouhavesucceeded,butyoualwaysoverlooksomething,alittleyes,alittleno,enoughtoexterminatearegimentofdragoons.AndyetIdonotdespair,this time,while sayingwho I am,where I am,of not losingme, of not goingfromhere,ofendinghere.Whatpreventsthemiracleis thespiritofmethodtowhich Ihaveperhapsbeena little tooaddicted.The fact thatPrometheuswasdelivered twenty-nine thousand nine hundred and seventy years after havingpurgedhisoffenceleavesmenaturallyascoldascamphor.Forbetweenmeandthat miscreant who mocked the gods, invented fire, denatured clay anddomesticated thehorse, inawordobligedhumanity, I trust there isnothing incommon.Butthethingisworthmentioning.Inaword,shallIbeabletospeakofmeandofthisplacewithoutputtinganendtous,shallIeverbeabletogosilent,isthereanyconnectionbetweenthesetwoquestions?Nothinglikeissues.Thereareafewtobegoingonwith,perhapsoneonly.

AlltheseMurphys,MolloysandMalonesdonotfoolme.Theyhavemademewaste my time, suffer for nothing, speak of them when, in order to stop

speaking, I shouldhave spokenofme andofme alone.But I just said I havespokenofme,amspeakingofme.Idon’tcareacursewhatIjustsaid.ItisnowI shall speak ofme, for the first time. I thought Iwas right in enlisting thesesufferersofmypains. Iwaswrong.Theynever sufferedmypains, theirpainsarenothing,comparedtomine,ameretittleofmine,thetittleIthoughtIcouldput fromme, in order towitness it. Let them be gone now, them and all theothers,thoseIhaveusedandthoseIhavenotused,givemebackthepainsIlentthemandvanish,frommylife,mymemory,myterrorsandshames.There,nowthereisnooneherebutme,noonewheelsaboutme,noonecomestowardsme,noonehas evermet anyonebeforemyeyes, these creatureshavenever been,onlyIandthisblackvoidhaveeverbeen.Andthesounds?No,allissilent.Andthe lights, onwhich I had set such store,must they toogoout?Yes, outwiththem, there is no light here.Nogrey either, black iswhat I should have said.Nothingthenbutme,ofwhichIknownothing,exceptthatIhaveneveruttered,andthisblack,ofwhichIknownothingeither,exceptthatitisblack,andempty.Thattheniswhat,sinceIhavetospeak,Ishallspeakof,untilIneedspeaknomore.AndBasilandhisgang?Inexistent,inventedtoexplainIforgetwhat.Ahyes,all lies,Godandman,natureand the lightofday, theheart’soutpouringsandthemeansofunderstanding,allinvented,basely,bymealone,withthehelpofnoone,since there isnoone, toputoff thehourwhenImustspeakofme.Therewillbenomoreaboutthem.

I,ofwhomIknownothing,Iknowmyeyesareopen,becauseofthetearsthatpour from them unceasingly. I know I am seated, my hands on my knees,becauseofthepressureagainstmyrump,againstthesolesofmyfeet,againstthepalmsofmyhands,againstmyknees.Againstmypalmsthepressureisofmyknees, against my knees of my palms, but what is it that presses against myrump,against thesolesofmyfeet?Idon’tknow.Myspineisnotsupported. Imention thesedetails tomakesure Iamnot lyingonmyback,my legs raisedandbent,myeyesclosed.Itiswelltoestablishthepositionofthebodyfromtheoutset,beforepassingon tomore importantmatters.ButwhatmakesmesayIgazestraightbeforeme,asIhavesaid?Ifeelmybackstraight,myneckstiffandfreeoftwistandupontopofitthehead,liketheballofthecup-and-ballin itscupattheendofthestick.Thesecomparisonsareuncalledfor.Thenthereisthewayofflowingofmytearswhichflowallovermyface,andevendownalongtheneck,inawayitseemstometheycouldnotdoifthefacewerebowed,orliftedup.ButImustnotconfusetheunbowedheadwiththelevelgaze,northe

verticalwiththehorizontalplane.Thisquestioninanycaseissecondary,sinceIsee nothing. Am I clothed? I have often asked myself this question, thensuddenlystartedtalkingaboutMalone’shat,orMolloy’sgreatcoat,orMurphy’ssuit. If I am, I ambut lightly.For I feelmy tearscoursingovermychest,mysides,andalldownmyback.Ahyes,Iamtrulybathedintears.Theygatherinmy beard and from there, when it can hold no more – no, no beard, no haireither,itisagreatsmoothballIcarryonmyshoulders,featureless,butfortheeyes,ofwhichonlythesocketsremain.Andwereitnotforthedistanttestimonyofmypalms,mysoles,whichIhavenotyetbeenabletoquash,Iwouldgladlygivemyselftheshape,ifnottheconsistency,ofanegg,withtwoholesnomatterwhere to prevent it from bursting, for the consistency is more like that ofmucilage.Butsoftly,softly,otherwiseI’llneverarrive.InthematterofclothesthenIcanthinkofnothingforthemomentbutpossiblyputtees,withperhapsafewragsclingingtomehereandthere.Nomoreobscenitieseither.WhyshouldIhavea sex,whohaveno longer anose?All those thingshave fallen, all thethingsthatstickout,withmyeyes,myhair,withoutleavingatrace,fallensofar,sodeep,thatIheardnothing,perhapsarefallingstill,myhairslowlylikesootstill,of thefallofmyearsheardnothing.Meanwords,andneedless, fromthemeanoldspirit,Iinventedlove,music,thesmelloffloweringcurrant,toescapefromme.Organs, awithout, it’s easy to imagine, agod, it’sunavoidable,youimagine them, it’s easy, the worst is dulled, you doze away, an instant. Yes,God,fomenterofcalm,Ineverbelieved,notasecond.Nomorepauseseither.Can I keep nothing then, nothing of what has borne my poor thoughts, bentbeneathmywords,whileIhid?I’lldrythesestreamingsocketstoo,bungthemup, there, it’sdone,nomore tears, I’mabig talkingball, talking about thingsthatdonotexist,orthatexistperhaps,impossibletoknow,besidethepoint.Ahyes, quick let me change my tune. And after all why a ball, rather thansomethingelse,andwhybig?Whynotacylinder,asmallcylinder?Anegg,amediumegg?Nono,that’stheoldnonsense,IalwaysknewIwasround,solidand round, without daring to say so, no asperities, no apertures, invisibleperhaps,orasvastasSiriusintheGreatDog,theseexpressionsmeannothing.AllthatmattersisthatIamroundandhard,theremustbereasonsforthat,formybeingroundandhardratherthanofsomeirregularshapeandsubjectto thedentsandbulgesincidenttoshock,butIhavedonewithreasons.AlltherestIrenounce,includingthisridiculousblackwhichIthoughtforamomentworthierthangreytoenfoldme.Whatrubbishallthisstuffaboutlightanddark.AndhowIhave luxuriated in it.Butdo I roll, in themannerof a trueball?Or am I in

equilibriumsomewhere,ononeofmynumberlesspoles?Ifeelstronglytemptedto inquire. What reams of discourse I could elicit from this seemingly solegitimatepreoccupation.Butwhichwouldnotbecreditedtome.No,betweenmeandtherighttosilence,thelivingrest,stretchesthesameoldlesson,theoneIonceknewbyheartandwouldnotsay,Idon’tknowwhy,perhapsforfearofsilence,orthinkinganyoldthingwoulddo,andsoforpreferencelies,inordertoremain hidden, no importance. But now I shall say my old lesson, if I canremember it.Under the skies,on the roads, in the towns, in thewoods, in thehills, in theplains,bytheshores,ontheseas,behindmymannikins, Iwasnotalwayssad,Iwastedmytime,abjuredmyrights,sufferedfornothing,forgotmylesson. Then a little hell after my own heart, not too cruel, with a few nicedamned to foist my groans on, something sighing off and on and the distantgleamsofpity’s firesbiding theirhour topromoteus toashes. I speak, speak,becauseImust,butIdonotlisten,Iseekmylesson,mylifeIusedtoknowandwould not confess, hence possibly an occasional slight lack of limpidity.Andperhaps now again I shall do no more than seek my lesson, to the self-accompanimentofatonguethatisnotmine.ButinsteadofsayingwhatIshouldnot have said, and what I shall say no more, if I can, and what I shall sayperhaps,ifIcan,shouldInotrathersaysomeotherthing,eventhoughitbenotyettherightthing?I’lltry,I’lltryinanotherpresent,eventhoughitbenotyetmine, without pauses, without tears, without eyes, without reasons. Let it beassumed then that I am at rest, though this is unimportant, at rest or forevermoving, through the air or in contactwith other surfaces, or that I sometimesmove,sometimesrest,sinceIfeelnothing,neitherquietudenorchange,nothingthatcanserveasapointofdeparturetowardsanopiniononthissubject,whichwouldnotgreatlymatterifIpossessedsomegeneralnotions,andthentheuseofreason, but there it is, I feel nothing, know nothing, and as far as thinking isconcernedIdojustenoughtopreservemefromgoingsilent,youcan’tcallthatthinking.Letus thenassumenothing,neither that Imove,nor that Idon’t, it’ssafer,sincethethingisunimportant,andpassontothosethatare.Namely?Thisvoicethatspeaks,knowingthatitlies,indifferenttowhatitsays,toooldperhapsand too abased ever to succeed in saying the words that would be its last,knowingitselfuselessanditsuselessnessinvain,notlisteningtoitselfbuttothesilence that itbreaksandwhenceperhapsonedaywill comestealing the longclearsighofadventandfarewell,isitone?I’llasknomorequestions,thereareno more questions, I know none any more. It issues from me, it fills me, itclamoursagainstmywalls,itisnotmine,Ican’tstopit,Ican’tpreventit,from

tearingme,rackingme,assailingme.Itisnotmine,Ihavenone,Ihavenovoiceandmustspeak,thatisallIknow,it’sroundthatImustrevolve,ofthatImustspeak,with thisvoice that isnotmine,butcanonlybemine,since there isnoone butme, or if there are others, towhom itmight belong, they have nevercome near me. I won’t delay just now to make this clear. Perhaps they arewatching me from afar, I have no objection, as long as I don’t see them,watchingmelikeafaceintheemberswhichtheyknowisdoomedtocrumble,but it takes too long, it’sgetting late, eyesareheavyand tomorrow theymustrisebetimes.SoitisIwhospeak,allalone,sinceIcan’tdootherwise.No,Iamspeechless.Talkingofspeaking,whatifIwentsilent?Whatwouldhappentomethen?Worsethanwhatishappening?Butfiethesearequestionsagain.Thatistypical.Iknownomorequestionsandtheykeeponpouringoutofmymouth.IthinkIknowwhatitis,it’stopreventthediscoursefromcomingtoanend,thisfutilediscoursewhichisnotcreditedtomeandbringsmenotasyllablenearersilence.ButnowIamonmyguard,Ishallnotanswerthemanymore,Ishallnotpretend anymore to answer them. Perhaps I shall be obliged, in order not topeterout,toinventanotherfairy-tale,yetanother,withheads,trunks,arms,legsandall thatfollows,let looseinthechangelessroundofimperfectshadowanddubiouslight.ButIhopeandtrustnot.ButIalwayscanifnecessary.Forwhileunfoldingmy facetiae, the last time that happened tome, or to the otherwhopasses forme, Iwas not inattentive.And it seemed tome then that I heard amurmurtellingofanotherandlessunpleasantmethodofendingmytroublesandthatIevensucceededincatching,withoutceasingforaninstanttoemitmyhesaid,andhesaidtohimself,andheasked,andheanswered,acertainnumberofhighlypromisingformulaeandwhichindeedIpromisedmyselftoturntogoodaccountatthefirstopportunity,thatistosayassoonasIhadfinishedwithmytroop of lunatics. But all has gone clean frommy head. For it is difficult tospeak, even any old rubbish, and at the same time focus one’s attention onanother point, where one’s true interest lies, as fitfully defined by a feeblemurmurseeming toapologise fornotbeingdead.Andwhat it seemed tomeIheard then, concerning what I should do, and say, in order to have nothingfurther to do, nothing further to say, it seemed to me I only barely heard it,because of the noise Iwas engaged inmaking elsewhere, in obedience to theunintelligible terms of an incomprehensible damnation. And yet I wassufficiently impressedbycertainexpressions tomakeavow,while continuingmy yelps, never to forget them and, what is more, to ensure they shouldengenderothersandfinally,inanirresistibletorrent,banishfrommyvilemouth

allotherutterance,frommymouthspent invainwithvaininventionsallotherutterancebuttheirs,thetrueatlast,thelastatlast.ButallisforgottenandIhavedonenothing,unlesswhatIamdoingnowissomething,andnothingcouldgivemegreatersatisfaction.ForifIcouldhearsuchamusicatsuchatime,Imeanwhileflounderingthroughaponderouschronicleofmoribundsintheircourses,moving,clashing,writhingorfalleninshort-livedswoons,withhowmuchmorereason should I not hear it now,whensupposedlyI am burdenedwithmyselfalone.Butthisisthinkingagain.AndIseemyselfslipping,thoughnotyetatthelast extremity, towards the resorts of fable. Would it not be better if I weresimplytokeeponsayingbabababa,forexample,whilewaitingtoascertain thetrue function of this venerable organ? Enough questions, enough reasoning, Iresume, years later,meaning I suppose that Iwent silent, that I can go silent.And now this noise again.That is all rather obscure. I say years, though heretherearenoyears.Whatmatterhowlong?YearsisoneofBasil’sideas.Ashorttime,a long time, it’sall thesame. Ikeptsilence, that’sall thatcounts, if thatcounts,Ihaveforgottenifthatissupposedtocount.Andnowitistakenfrommeagain.Silence,yes,butwhatsilence!Forit isallveryfinetokeepsilence,butonehasalsotoconsiderthekindofsilenceonekeeps.Ilistened.Onemightaswell speak and be donewith it.What liberty! I strainedmy ear towardswhatmusthavebeenmyvoicestill,soweak,sofar,thatitwaslikethesea,afarcalmsea dying – no, none of that, no beach, no shore, the sea is enough, I’ve hadenough of shingle, enough of sand, enough of earth, enough of sea too.DecidedlyBasil is becoming important, I’ll call himMahood instead, I preferthat, I’mqueer. Itwas he toldme stories aboutme, lived inmy stead, issuedforth fromme, cameback tome, entered back intome, heaped stories onmyhead. Idon’tknowhowitwasdone. Ialways likednotknowing,butMahoodsaid itwasn’t right.He didn’t know either, but itworried him. It is his voicewhich has often, always, mingled with mine, and sometimes drowned itcompletely.Untilheleftmeforgood,orrefusedtoleavemeanymore,Idon’tknow.Yes,Idon’tknowifhe’sherenoworfaraway,butIdon’tthinkIamfarwronginsayingthathehasceasedtoplagueme.WhenhewasawayItriedtofindmyselfagain,toforgetwhathehadsaid,aboutme,aboutmymisfortunes,fatuous misfortunes, idiotic pains, in the light of my true situation, revoltingword. But his voice continued to testify for me, as though woven into mine,preventing me from saying who I was, what I was, so as to have done withsaying,donewithlistening.Andstilltoday,ashewouldsay,thoughheplaguesme no more his voice is there, in mine, but less, less. And being no longer

reneweditwilldisappearoneday,Ihope,frommine,completely.ButinorderforthattohappenImustspeak,speak.Andat thesametime,Idonotdeceivemyself,hemaycomebackagain,orgoawayagainandthencomebackagain.Then my voice, the voice, would say, That’s an idea, now I’ll tell one ofMahood’sstories,Ineedarest.Yes,that’showitwouldhappen.Anditwouldsay,Thenrefreshed,setabout thetruthagain,withredoubledvigour.TomakemethinkIwasafreeagent.Butitwouldnotbemyvoice,noteveninpart.Thatis how it would be done. Or quietly, stealthily, the story would begin, as ifnothing had happened and I still the teller and the told. But I would be fastasleep,mymouthagape,asusual,Iwouldlookthesameasusual.Andfrommysleepingmouth the lies would pour, aboutme. No, not sleeping, listening, intears.Butnow,isitInow,Ionme?SometimesIthinkitis.AndthenIrealiseitisnot.Iamdoingmybest,andfailingagain,yetagain.Idon’tmindfailing,it’sa pleasure, but I want to go silent. Not as just now, the better to listen, butpeacefully, victorious, without ulterior object. Then it would be a life worthhaving,alifeatlast.Myspeech-parchedvoiceatrestwouldfillwithspittle,I’dletitflowoverandover,happyatlast,dribblingwithlife,mypensumended,inthe silence. I spoke, Imust have spoken, of a lesson, itwas pensum I shouldhavesaid, Iconfusedpensumwith lesson.Yes, Ihaveapensum todischarge,beforeIcanbefree,freetodribble,freetospeaknomore,listennomore,andI’ve forgottenwhat it is. There at last is a fair picture ofmy situation. Iwasgivenapensum,atbirthperhaps,asapunishmentforhavingbeenbornperhaps,orfornoparticularreason,becausetheydislikeme,andI’veforgottenwhatitis.ButwasIevertold?Squeeze,squeeze,nottoohard,butsqueezealittlelonger,thisisperhapsaboutyou,andyourgoalathand.Aftertenthousandwords?Wellletus sayonegoal, after it therewill beothers.Speak,yes, but tome, I haveneverspokenenoughtome,neverlistenedenoughtome,neverrepliedenoughtome,neverhadpityenoughonme,Ihavespokenformymaster,listenedforthewordsofmymasterneverspoken,Welldone,mychild,welldone,myson,youmaystop,youmaygo,youare free,youareacquitted,youarepardoned,neverspoken.Mymaster.There isavein Imustnot losesightof.But for themomentmyconcern–butbeforeIforget,theremaybemorethanone,awholecollegeoftyrants,differingintheirviewsastowhatshouldbedonewithme,inconclavesincetimebeganoralittlelater,listeningtomefromtimetotime,thenbreakingupforamealoragameofcards–myconcerniswiththepensumofwhichIthinkImaysafelysay,withoutlossofface,thatitisinsomewayrelatedtothatlessontoohastilyproclaimed,toohastilydenied.ForallIneedsayisthis,

thatifIhaveapensumtoperformitisbecauseIcouldnotsaymylesson,andthatwhenIhavefinishedmypensumIshallstillhavemylessontosay,beforeIhavetherighttostayquietinmycorner,aliveanddribbling,mymouthshut,mytongueat rest, far fromalldisturbance,all sound,mymindatpeace, that is tosayempty.Butthisdoesnotgetmeveryfar.ForevenshouldIhitupontherightpensum, somewhere in this churn of words at last, I would still have toreconstitute the right lesson, unless of course the two are one and the same,which obviously is not impossible either. Strange notion in any case, andeminentlyopentosuspicion,thatofatasktobeperformed,beforeonecanbeatrest. Strange task,which consists in speakingof oneself. Strangehope, turnedtowardssilenceandpeace.Possessedofnothingbutmyvoice,thevoice,itmayseem natural, once the idea of obligation has been swallowed, that I shouldinterpretitasanobligationtosaysomething.Butisitpossible?Bereftofhands,perhapsit ismydutytoclapor,striking thepalms together, tocall thewaiter,andoffeet,todancetheCarmagnole.Butletusfirstsuppose,inordertogetonalittle,thenwe’llsupposesomethingelse,inordertogetonalittlefurther,thatitisinfactrequiredofmethatIsaysomething,somethingthatisnottobefoundinallIhavesaiduptonow.Thatseemsareasonableassumption.Butthencetoinferthatthesomethingrequiredissomethingaboutmesuddenlystrikesmeasunwarranted.Mightitnotratherbethepraiseofmymaster,intoned,inordertoobtainhis forgiveness?Or theadmission that I amMahoodafter all and thesestoriesofabeingwhoseidentityheusurps,andwhosevoiceheprevents frombeing heard, all lies from beginning to end? And what if Mahood were mymaster?I’llleaveitatthat,forthetimebeing.Somanyprospectsinsoshortatime, it’s toomuch.Decidedly it seems impossible, at this stage, that I shoulddispensewithquestions,asIpromisedmyselfIwould.No,ImerelysworeI’dstop asking them. And perhaps before long, who knows, I shall light on thehappycombinationwhichwillpreventthemfromeverarisingagaininmy–letus not beover-nice–mind.Forwhat I amdoing is not beingdonewithout aminimumofmind.Notmineperhaps,granted,withpleasure,butIdrawonit,atleastItryandlookasifIdid.Richmatterthere,tobeexploited,fattenyouup,suckit tothecore,keepyougoingforyears, tastyintothebargain,Iquiveratthe thought, give you my word, spoken in jest, quiver and hurry on, all lifebeforeme,onandforget,whatIwassaying,justnow,somethingimportant,it’sgone,it’llcomeback,noregrets,asgoodasnew,unrecognisable,let’shopeso,somedaywhen I feelmoreon forhigh-classnuts to crack.On.Themaster. Inever paid him enough attention. No more perhapses either, that old trick is

worn to a thread. I’ll forbidmyself everything, then go on as if I hadn’t.Themaster.Afewallusionshereand there,as toa satrap,withaview toenlistingsympathy. They clothedme and gavememoney, that kind of thing, the lighttouch.Thennomore.OrMoran’sboss,Iforgethisname.Ahyes,certainthings,things I invented, hoping for the best, full of doubts, croakingwith fatigue, Iremember certain things, not always the same. But to investigate this matterseriously, Imeanwith asmuch futile ardour as that of the underling,which Ihopedwasmine,closetomine,theroadtomine,no,thatneveroccurredtome.AndifitoccurstomenowitisbecauseIhavedespairedofmine.Amomentofdiscouragement,tostrikewhilehot.Mymasterthen,assumingheissolitary,inmyimage,wishesmewell,poordevil,wishesmygood,andifhedoesnotseemtodoverymuch inordernot tobedisappointed it isbecause there isnotverymuchtobedoneor,betterstill,becausethereisnothingtobedone,otherwisehewouldhavedoneit,mygreatandgoodmaster, thatmustbe it, longago,poordevil.Anothersupposition,hehastakenthenecessarysteps,hiswillisdoneasfarasIamconcerned(forhemayhaveotherprotégés)andalliswellwithmewithoutmyknowingit.Casesoneandtwo.I’llconsidertheformerfirst,ifIcan.Then I’ll admire the latter, ifmy eyes are still open. This sounds like one ofMalone’sanecdotes.Butquick,consider,beforeyouforget.Thereheisthen,theunfortunatebrute,quitemiserablebecauseofme,forwhomthereisnothingtobedone,andhesoanxioustohelp,sousedtogivingordersandtobeingobeyed.There he is, ever since I came into the world, possibly at his instigation, Iwouldn’tputitpasthim,commandingmetobewell,youknow,ineveryway,nocomplaintsatall,withasmuchsuccessasifhewereshoutingata lumpofinanimatematter. Ifhe isnotpleasedwith thispanegyric I hope Imaybe– Inearlysaidhanged,butthatIhopeinanycase,withoutrestriction,Inearlysaidcon,thatwouldcutmycackle.Ahforaneck!Iwantalltobewellwithyou,doyou hear me, that’s what he keeps on dinning at me. To which I reply, in arespectfulattitude,Itoo,yourLordship.Isaythattocheerhimup,hesoundssounhappy.Iamgood-hearted,onthesurface.No,wehavenoconversation,neveramumofhismouth tome.He’sout of luck, that’s certain, perhapshedidn’tchooseme.Whathemeansbygood,mygood,isanotherproblem.Heiscapableofwantingmetobehappy,suchathinghasbeenknown,itappears.Ortoserveapurpose.Or the twoatonce!A littlemoreexplicitnessonhispart, since theinitiativebelongstohim,mightbeahelp,aswellfromhispointofviewasfromtheoneheattributestome.Letthemanexplainhimselfandhavedonewithit.It’snoneofmybusinesstoaskhimquestions,evenifIknewhowtoreachhim.

Lethiminformmeonceandforallwhatexactlyitishewantsfromme,forme.Whathewantsismygood,Iknowthat,atleastIsayit,inthehopeofbringinghimroundtoamorereasonableframeofmind,assumingheexistsand,existing,hearsme.Butwhatgood,theremustbemorethanone.Thesupremeperhaps.Ina word let him enlightenme, that’s all I ask, so that I may at least have thesatisfactionofknowinginwhatsenseIleavetobedesired.Ifhewantsmetosaysomething,formygoodnaturally,hehasonlytotellmewhatitisandI’llletitoutwitharoarstraightaway.It’s truehemayhavealreadytoldmeahundredtimes. Well, let him make it a hundred and one, this time I’ll try and payattention.ButperhapsImalignhimunjustly,mygoodmaster,perhapsheisnotsolitary like me, not free like me, but associated with others, equally good,equallyconcernedwithmywelfare,butdifferingastoitsnature.Everyday,upabove, Imeanupaboveme, fromonesethour toanothersethour,everythingtherebeingsetandsettledexceptwhatistobedonewithme,theyassembletodiscussme.Orperhapsit’sameetingofdeputies,withinstructionstoelaborateatentativeagreement.Thefactofmycontinuing,whiletheyarethusengaged,tobewhat I have alwaysbeen isnaturallypreferable to a lame resolution,votedperhapsbyamajorityofone,ordrawnfromanoldhat.Theytooareunhappy,allthistime,eachonetothebestofhiscapacity,becauseallisnotwellwithme.Andnowenoughofthat.Ifthatdoesn’tmollifythemsomuchtheworseforme,Icanstillconceiveofsuchathing.ButonemoresuggestionbeforeIforgetandgo on to seriousmatters.Why don’t theywash their hands ofme and setmefree?Thatmightdomegood.Idon’tknow.PerhapsthenIcouldgosilent,forgood and all. Idle talk, idle talk, I am free, abandoned.All for nothing again.EvenMahoodhasleftme,I’malone.Allthisbusinessofalabourtoaccomplish,beforeIcanend,ofwordstosay,atruthtorecover,inordertosayit,beforeIcanend,of an imposed task,onceknown, longneglected, finally forgotten, toperform,beforeIcanbedonewithspeaking,donewith listening, I invented itall, in the hope itwould consoleme, helpme to go on, allowme to think ofmyself as somewhere on a road, moving, between a beginning and an end,gainingground,losingground,gettinglost,butsomehowinthelongrunmakingheadway.Alllies.Ihavenothingtodo,thatistosaynothinginparticular.Ihavetospeak,whateverthatmeans.Havingnothingtosay,nowordsbutthewordsofothers,Ihavetospeak.Noonecompelsmeto,thereisnoone,it’sanaccident,afact.Nothingcaneverexemptmefromit,thereisnothing,nothingtodiscover,nothingtorecover,nothingthatcanlessenwhatremainstosay,Ihavetheoceantodrink,sothereisanoceanthen.Nottohavebeenadupe,thatwillhavebeen

my best possession, my best deed, to have been a dupe, wishing I wasn’t,thinkingIwasn’t,knowingIwas,notbeingadupeofnotbeingadupe.Foranyold thing,no, thatdoesn’twork, that shouldwork,but itdoesn’t.Labyrinthinetorment that can’t be grasped, or limited, or felt, or suffered, no, not evensuffered,Isufferallwrongtoo,eventhatIdoallwrongtoo,likeanoldturkey-hendyingonherfeet,herbackcoveredwithchickensandtheratsspyingonher.Nextinstalment,quick.Nocries,aboveallnocries,beurbane,acredittotheartandcodeofdying,while theotherscackle,Icanhear themfromhere, likethecrackling of thorns, no, I forgot, it’s impossible, it’s myself I hear, howlingbehindmydissertation.Sonotanyoldthing.EvenMahood’sstoriesarenotanyoldthing,thoughnolessforeign,towhat,tothatunfamiliarnativelandofmine,asunfamiliarasthatotherwheremencomeandgo,andfeelathome,ontrackstheyhavemadethemselves,inordertovisitoneanotherwiththemaximumofconvenienceanddispatch, in the lightofachoiceof luminariespissingon thedarknessturnabout,sothatitisneverdark,neverdeserted,thatmustbeterrible.Sobeit.Notanyoldthing,butasnearasnomatter.Mahood.Beforehimtherewereothers,takingthemselvesforme,itmustbeasinecurehandeddownfromgenerationtogeneration,tojudgebytheirfamilyair.Mahoodisnoworsethanhispredecessors.Butbeforeexecutinghisportrait, full lengthonhis survivingleg,letmenotethatmynextvice-existerwillbeabillyinthebowl,that’sfinal,withhisbowlonhishead and his arse in the dust, plumpdownon thousand-breastedTellus,it’llbesofterforhim.Faiththat’sanidea,yetanother,mutilate,mutilate, and perhaps some day, fifteen generations hence, you’ll succeed inbeginning to look like yourself, among the passers-by. In the meantime it’sMahood,thiscaricatureishe.Whatifwewereoneandthesameafterall,asheaffirms,andIdeny?AndIbeenintheplaceswherehesaysIhavebeen,insteadofhavingstayedonhere,tryingtotakeadvantageofhisabsencetounravelmytangle?Here,inmydomain,whatisMahooddoinginmydomain,andhowdoeshegethere?ThereIamlaunchedagainonthesameoldhopelessbusiness,therewearefacetoface,MahoodandI,ifwearetwain,asIsayweare.Ineversawhim,Idon’tseehim,hehastoldmewhatheislike,whatIamlike,theyhavealltoldme that, itmust be one of their principal functions. It isn’t enough that IshouldknowwhatI’mdoing,ImustalsoknowwhatI’mlookinglike.ThistimeI am short of a leg.And yet it appears I have rejuvenated. That’s part of theprogramme.Havingbroughtmetodeath’sdoor,senilegangrene,theywhipoffalegandyipoffIgoagain,likeayoungone,scouringtheearthforaholetohidein.Asinglelegandotherdistinctivestigmatatogowithit,humantobesure,but

notexaggeratedly,lestItakefrightandrefusetonibble.He’llresignhimselfintheend,he’llownup in theend, that’s thewatchword.Let’s tryhimthis timewith a hairless wedge-head, he might fancy that, that kind of talk. With thesolitary leg in themiddle, thatmight appeal to him. The poor bastards. Theycould clap an artificial anus in the hollowofmyhand and still Iwouldn’t bethere,alivewiththeirlife,notfarshortofaman,justbarelyaman,sufficientlyaman to have hopes one day of being one, my avatars behind me. And yetsometimesitseemstomeIamthere,among the incriminatedscenes, totteringunder theattributespeculiar to the lordsofcreation,dumbwithhowling tobeput out of my misery, and all round me the spinach blue rustling withsatisfaction. Yes, more than once I almost took myself for the other, all butsuffered after his fashion, the space of an instant. Then they uncorked thechampagne. One of us at last! Green with anguish! A real little terrestrial!Chokinginthechlorophyll!Huggingtheslaughterhousewalls!Paltrypriestsoftheirrepressibleephemeral,howtheymusthateme.Come,mylambkin,joininour gambols, it’s soon over, you’ll see, just time to frolicwith a lambkinette,that’s jam.Love, there’s a carrot never fails, I always had to thread someoldbodkin.Andthat’s thekindof jakes inwhichIsometimesdreamtIdwelt,andevenletdownmytrousers.Mahoodhimselfnearlycoddedmemorethanonce.I’vebeenheaninstant,hobblingthroughanaturewhich, it isonlyfair tosay,wasonthebarrensideand,whatismore,itisonlyjusttoadd,tolerablydesertedtobeginwith.Aftereach thrustofmycrutchesIstopped, todevouranarcoticandmeasure the distance gone, the distance yet to go.My head is there too,broadatthebase,itsslopesdenuded,culminatingina ridgeorcrowningglorystrewnwithlongwavinghairslikethosethatgrowonnaevi.Nodenyingit,I’mconfoundedlywell informed.Youmustallowitwastempting.Isayaninstant,perhapsitwasyears.ThenIwithdrewmyadhesion,itwasgettingtoomuchofagoodthing.Ihadalreadyadvancedagoodtenpaces,ifonemaycallthempaces,notinastraightlineIneedhardlysay,butinasharpcurvewhich,ifIcontinuedto follow it, seemed likely to restore me to my point of departure, or to oneadjacent.Imusthavegotembroiledinakindofinvertedspiral,Imeanonethecoilsofwhich,insteadofwideningmoreandmore,grewnarrowerandnarrowerandfinally,given thekindofspace inwhichIwassupposed toevolve,wouldcometoanendforlackofroom.Facedthenwiththematerial impossibilityofgoinganyfurtherIshouldnodoubthavehadtostop,unlessofcourseIelectedtosetoffagainatonceintheoppositedirection,tounscrewmyselfas itwere,after having screwed myself to a standstill, which would have been an

experiencerichininterestandfertileinsurprisesifIamtobelievewhatIoncewastold,inspiteofmyprotests,namelythatthereisnoroadsodull,onthewayout, but it has quite a different aspect, quite a different dullness, on thewayback,andviceversa.Nogoodwriggling,I’mamineofuselessknowledge.Butadifficultyariseshere.Forifbydintofwindingmyselfup,ifImayventurethatellipse, it doesn’t oftenhappen tomenow, if bydint ofwindingmyself up, Idon’t seem tohavegainedmuch time, ifbydintofwindingmyselfup Imustinevitablyfindmyselfstuckintheend,oncelaunchedintheoppositedirectionshouldInotnormallyunfoldadinfinitum,withnopossibilityofeverstopping,thespaceinwhichIwasmaroonedbeingglobular,orisittheearth,nomatter,IknowwhatImean.Butwhereisthedifficulty?Therewasoneamomentago,Icould swear to it. Not to mention that I could quite easily at any moment,literally any, run foul of awall, a tree or similar obstacle,which of course itwouldbeprohibitedtocircumvent,andtherebyhaveanendputtomygyrationsaseffectivelyasbythekindofcrampjustmentioned.Butobstacles,itappears,canberemovedinthefullnessoftime,butnotbyme,metheywouldstopdeadforever, ifI livedamongthem.Butevenwithoutsuchaidsitseemstome thatonce beyond the equator you would start turning inwards again, out of sheernecessity,Isomehowhavethatfeeling.AttheparticularmomentIamreferringto,ImeanwhenItookmyselfforMahood,Imusthavebeencomingtotheendofaworldtour,perhapsnotmorethantwoorthreecenturiestogo.Mystateofdecaylendscolourtothisview,perhapsIhadleftmylegbehindinthePacific,yes,noperhapsaboutit,Ihad,somewhereoffthecoastofJavaanditsjunglesred with rafflesia stinking of carrion, no, that’s the Indian Ocean, what agazetteerIam,nomatter,somewhereroundthere.InawordIwasreturningtothefold, admittedly reduced, anddoubtless fated tobe evenmore so, before Icouldberestoredtomywifeandparents,youknow,mylovedones,andclaspinmyarms,bothofwhichIhadsucceededinpreserving,mylittleonesborninmyabsence. I foundmyself inakindofvastyardorcampus, surroundedbyhighwalls, its surface an amalgam of dirt and ashes, and this seemed sweet tomeafterthevastandheavingwastesIhadtraversed,ifmyinformationwascorrect.Ialmostfeltoutofdanger!Atthecentreofthisenclosurestoodasmallrotunda,windowless,butwell furnishedwith loopholes.Withoutbeingquite sure Ihadseenitbefore,Ihadbeensolongfromhome,Ikeptsayingtomyself,Yonderisthe nest you should never have left, there your dear absent ones are awaitingyourreturn,patiently,andyoutoomustbepatient.Itwasswarmingwiththem,grandpa,grandma,littlemotherandtheeightorninebrats.Withtheireyesglued

totheslitsandtheirheartsgoingouttometheysurveyedmyefforts.Thisyardso long deserted was now enlivened, for them, by me. So we turned, in ourrespectiveorbits,Iwithout,theywithin.Atnight,keepingwatchbyturns,theyobservedmewiththehelpofasearchlight.Sotheseasonscameandwent.Thechildren increased in stature, the periods of Ptomaine grew pale, the ancientsglowered at each other,muttering, to themselves, I’ll bury you yet, or,You’llburymeyet.Sincemyarrival theyhada subjectofconversation, andevenofdiscussion,thesameasofold,atthemomentofmysettingforth,perhapsevenaninterestinlife,thesameasofold.Timehunglessheavyontheirhands.Whataboutthrowinghimafewscraps?Nono,itmightupsethim.Theydidnotwanttochecktheimpetusthatwassweepingmetowardsthem.Youwouldn’tknowhim!True,papa,andyetyoucan’tmistakehim.Theywhointheordinarywayneveransweredwhenspokento,myelders,mywife,shewhohadchosenme,rather thanoneofhersuitors.Afewmoresummersandhe’llbe inourmidst.WhereamIgoingtoputhim?Inthebasement?PerhapsafterallIamsimplyinthebasement.Whatpossesseshimtobestoppingallthetime?Ohhewasalwayslike that, ever since hewas amite, always stopping,wasn’t he,Granny?Yesindeed, never easy, always stopping. According to Mahood I never reachedthem,thatistosaytheyalldiedfirst,thewholetenorelevenofthem,carriedoffbysausage-poisoning,ingreatagony.Incommodedfirstbytheirshrieks,thenbythe stench of decomposition, I turned sadly away. But not so fast, otherwisewe’llneverarrive.It’snolongerIinanycase.He’llneverreachusifhedoesn’tgetamoveon.Helooksasifhehadsloweddown,sincelastyear.Ohthelastlapswon’ttakehimlong.Mymissinglegdidn’tseemtoaffectthem,perhapsitwasalreadymissingwhenIleft.Whataboutthrowinghimasponge?Nono,itmightconfusehim.Intheevening,aftersupper,whilemywifekepthereyeonme,gafferandgammerrelatedmylifehistory, tothesleepychildren.Bedtimestoryatmosphere.That’soneofMahood’sfavouritetricks,toproduceostensiblyindependent testimony in support of my historical existence. The instalmentover,alljoinedinahymn,SafeinthearmsofJesus,forexample,or,Jesusloverofmysoul, letmetothybosomfly,forexample.Thentheywenttobed,withtheexceptionof theoneonwatchduty.Myparentsdiffered in theirviewsonme,buttheywereagreedIhadbeenafinebaby,attheverybeginning,thefirstfortnight or three weeks. And yet he was a fine baby, with these words theyinvariably closed their relations. Often they fell silent, engulfed in theirmemories.Thenitwasusualforoneofthechildrentolaunch,bywayofenvoy,the consecrated phrase, And yet he was a fine baby. A burst of clear and

innocentlaughter,fromthemouthsofthosewhomsleephadnotyetovercome,greetedthisprematureconclusion.Andthenarratorsthemselves,tornfromtheirmelancholythoughts,couldscarceforbeartosmile.Thentheyallrose,withtheexception of my mother whose knees couldn’t support her, and sang, GentleJesus,meekandmild, forexample,or,Jesus,myone,myall,hearmewhenIcall, for example. He too must have been a fine baby. Finally my wifeannouncedthelatestnews,forthemtotaketobedwiththem.He’sbackingawayagain, or, He’s stopped to scratch himself, or, You should have seen himhoppingsidelong,or,Ohlookchildren,quickhe’sdownonhishandsandknee,admittedly that must have been worth seeing. It was then customary thatsomeone should ask her if I was approaching none the less, if in spite ofeverythingIwasmaking headway, they couldn’t bear the thought of going tobed, those who were still awake, without the assurance that I wasn’t losingground.Ptotosettheirmindsatrest.Ihadmoved,nofurtherproofwasneeded.IhadbeendrawingnearforsolongnowthatprovidedIremainedinmotiontherecouldbenocauseforanxiety.Iwaslaunched,therewasnoreasonwhyIshouldsuddenlybegin to retreat, I justwasn’tmade thatway.Thenhavingkissedallroundandwishedoneanotherhappydreamstheyretired,withtheexceptionofthe watch. What about hailing him? Poor Papa, he burned to encourage mevocally. Stick it, lad, it’s your last winter. But in view of the trouble I washaving, the trouble I was taking, they held him back, pointing out that themomentwasill-chosentogivemeashock.Butwhatweremyownfeelingsatthisperiod?Whatwas I thinkingof?Withwhat?Was Ihavingdifficultywithmymorale?The answer to all that is this, I quoteMalone, that Iwas entirelyabsorbedinthebusinessonhandandnotatallconcernedtoknowprecisely,orevenapproximately,whatitconsistedin.Theonlyproblemformewashowtocontinue,sinceIcouldnotdootherwise,tothebestofmydecliningpowers,inthe motion which had been imparted to me. This obligation, and the quasi-impossibility of fulfilling it, engrossed me in a purely mechanical way,excluding notably the free play of the intelligence and sensibility, so thatmysituationratherresembledthatofanoldbroken-downcartorbat-horseunabletoreceivetheleastinformationeitherfromitsinstinctorfromitsobservationastowhetheritismovingtowardsthestableorawayfromit,andnotgreatlycaringeither way. The question, among others, of how such things are possible hadlongsinceceasedtopreoccupyme.ThistouchingpictureofmysituationIfoundbynomeansunattractiveandasIrecallitIfindmyselfwonderingagainifIwasnot in fact the creature revolving in that yard, as Mahood assured me. Well

suppliedwithpain-killersIdrewuponthemfreely,withouthoweverpermittingmyself the lethal dose thatwould have cut shortmy functions,whatever theymay have been. Having somehow or other remarked the habitation and evenadmittedtomyselfthatIhadperhapsseenitbefore,Igaveitnofurtherthought,nortothenearanddearonesthatfilledittooverflowing,inamountingfeverofimpatience.Thoughnowcloseathand,as thecrowflies, tomygoal,Ididnotquickenmystep.Icouldhavenodoubt,butIhadtohusbandmystrength,ifIwasevertoarrive.Ihadnowishtoarrive,butIhadtodomyutmost,inordertoarrive.Adesirablegoal,no,Ineverhadtimetodwellonthat.Togoon,Istillcallthaton,togoonandgetonhasbeenmyonlycare,ifnotalwaysinastraightline,atleastinobediencetothefigureassignedtome,therewasneveranyroominmylifeforanythingelse.StillMahoodspeaking.NeveroncehaveIstopped.Myhaltsdonotcount.Theirpurposewastoenablemetogoon.Ididnotusethem to brood on my lot, but to rub myself as best I might with Elliman’sEmbrocation,forexample,ortogivemyselfaninjectionoflaudanum,noeasymattersforamanwithonlyoneleg.Oftenthecrywentup,He’sdown!Butinreality Ihadsunk to thegroundofmyownfreewill, inorder tobe ridofmycrutches and have both hands available to minister to myself in peace andcomfort.Admittedlyitisdifficult,foramanwithbutoneleg,tosinktoearthinthefullforceoftheexpression,particularlywhenheisweakintheheadandthesolesurvivinglegflaccidforwantofexercise,orfromexcessofit.Thesimplestthing then is to flingaway thecrutchesandcollapse.That iswhat Idid.TheywerethereforerightinsayingIhadfallen, theywerenotfarwrong.OhIhavealsobeenknowntofallinvoluntarily,butnotoften,anoldwarriorlikeme,youcan imagine.Buthave it anywayyou like.Upordown, takingmyanodynes,waitingforthepaintoabate,pantingtobeonmywayagain,Istopped,ifyouinsist, butnot in the sense theymeantwhen they said,He’sdownagain, he’llneverreachus.WhenIpenetrateintothathouse,ifIeverdo,itwillbetogoonturning,fasterandfaster,moreandmoreconvulsive,likeaconstipateddog,oronesufferingfromworms,overturningthefurniture,inthemidstofmyfamilyall trying to embrace me at once, until by virtue of a supreme spasm I amcatapulted in the opposite direction and gradually leave backwards, withouthavingsaidgood-evening.Imustreallylendmyselftothisstoryalittlelonger,theremaypossiblybeagrainoftruthinit.MahoodmusthaveremarkedthatIremainedsceptical,forhecasuallyletfallthatIwaslackingnotonlyaleg,butanarmalso.With regard to thehomologouscrutch, I seemed tohave retainedsufficientarmpit toholdandmanoeuvre it,with thehelpofmyuniquefoot to

kick the end of it forward as occasion required. But what shocked meprofoundly, to such a degree that my mind (Mahood dixit) was assailed byinsuperable doubts,was the suggestion that themisfortune experiencedbymyfamilyandbrought tomynotice first by thenoise of their agony, thenby thesmell of their corpses, had caused me to turn back. From that moment on Iceased togoalongwithhim. I’ll explainwhy, thatwill permitme to thinkofsomethingelseandinthefirstplaceofhowtogetbacktome,backtowhereIamwaitingforme,I’djustassoonnot,butit’smyonlychance,atleastIthinkso,theonlychanceIhaveofgoingsilent,ofsayingsomethingatlastthatisnotfalse,ifthatiswhattheywant,soastohavenothingmoretosay.Myreasons.I’llgivethreeorfour,thatoughttobeenoughforme.Firstthisfamilyofmine,themerefactofhavingafamilyshouldhaveputmeonmyguard.Butmygood-will at certainmoments is such, andmy longing to have floundered howeverbriefly, however feebly, in the great life torrent streaming from the earliestprotozoatotheverylatesthumans,thatI,no,parenthesisunfinished.I’llbeginagain.My family.To beginwith it had no part or share inwhat Iwas doing.Havingsetforthfromthatplace,itwasonlynaturalIshouldreturntoit,giventhe accuracy of my navigation. And my family could have moved to otherquartersduringmyabsence,andsettleddownahundredleaguesaway,withoutmydeviatingbyasmuchasahair’s-breadthfrommycourse.Asforthescreamsofpainandwaftsofdecomposition,assuming Iwascapableofnoticing them,theywouldhaveseemedtomequiteinthenaturalorderofthings,suchasIhadcometoknowit.IfbeforesuchmanifestationsIhadbeencompelledeachtimetoturnaside,Ishouldnothavegotveryfar.Washedonthesurfaceonlybytherains, my head cracking with unutterable imprecations, it was from myself Ishouldhavehadtoturnaside,beforeallelse.AfterallperhapsIwasdoingso,thatwouldaccountformyvaguelycircularmotion.Lies, lies,minewasnot toknow,nortojudge,nortorail,buttogo.Thatthebacillusbotulinusshouldhaveexterminatedmyentirekithandkin, Ishallneverwearyofrepeating this,wassomething I could readily admit, but only on condition that my personalbehaviourhadnottosufferbyit.Letusratherconsiderwhatreallytookplace,ifMahoodwastellingthetruth.Andwhyshouldhehaveliedtome,hesoanxioustoobtainmyadhesion,towhatnowthatIcometothinkofit,tohisconceptionofme?Why?Forfearofpainingmeperhaps.ButIamtheretobepained,thatiswhatmytemptershavenevergrasped.Whattheyallwanted,eachaccordingtohisparticularnotionofwhatisendurable,wasthatIshouldexistandatthesametimebeonlymoderately,orperhapsIshouldsayfinitelypained.Theyhaveeven

killed me off, with the friendly remark that having reached the end of myendurance Ihadnochoicebut todisappear.The endofmy endurance! Itwasonesecondtheyshouldhaveschooledmetoendure,afterthatIwouldhaveheldout forall eternity,whistlingamerry tune.Thehardknocks they invented forme!But thebouquetwas thisstoryofMahood’s inwhichIappearasupsetathaving been delivered so economically of a pack of blood relations, not tomentionthetwocuntsintothebargain,theoneforeveraccursedthatejectedmeinto thisworld and the other, infundibuliform, inwhich, pumpingmy likes, Itried to takemy revenge.To tell the truth, letusbehonest at least, it is someconsiderabletimenowsinceIlastknewwhatIwastalkingabout.Itisbecausemythoughtsareelsewhere. Iamtherefore forgiven.So longasone’s thoughtsare somewhere everything is permitted. On then, without misgiving, as ifnothinghadhappened.And let us considerwhat really took place, ifMahoodwas telling the truthwhen he representedme as rid at one glorious sweep ofparents,wife and heirs. I’ve plenty of time to blow it all skyhigh, this circuswhereitisenoughtobreathetoqualifyforasphyxiation,I’llfindawayoutofit,itwon’tbeliketheothertimes.ButIshouldnotliketodefamemydefamer.Forwhenhemademeturnandsetoffintheotherdirection,beforeIhadexhaustedthepossibilitiesoftheoneIwaspursuing,hehadnotinmindashrinkingofthespirit,not foramoment,butapurelyphysiological commotion, followedbyasimpledesiretovomit,correspondingrespectivelytothehowlsofmyfamilyastheygrudginglysuccumbedandthesubsequentstench,thislattercompellingmetobeatinretreatunderpenaltyoflosingconsciousnessentirely.Thisversionofthefactshavingbeenrestored,itonlyremainstosayitisnobetterthantheotherandnolessincompatiblewiththekindofcreatureImightjustconceivablyhavebeen if they had known how to takeme. So let us consider nowwhat reallyoccurred.FinallyIfoundmyself,withoutsurprise,withinthebuilding,circularinformasalreadystated,itsground-floorconsistingofasingleroomflushwiththe arena, and there completed my rounds, stamping under foot theunrecognisableremainsofmyfamily,hereaface, thereastomach,asthecasemightbe,andsinkingintothemwiththeendsofmycrutches,bothcomingandgoing.To say I did sowith satisfactionwould be stretching the truth.Formyfeelingwasratheroneofannoyanceathavingtoflounderinsuchmuckjustatthemomentwhenmyclosingcontortionscalled fora firmand levelsurface. Iliketofancy,evenifitisnottrue,thatitwasinmother’sentrailsIspentthelastdays of my long voyage, and set out on the next. No, I have no preference,Isolde’sbreastwouldhavedonejustaswell,orpapa’sprivateparts,ortheheart

ofoneofthelittlebastards.Butisitcertain?WouldIhavenotbeenmorelikely,in a sudden access of independence, to devour what remained of the fatalcorned-beef? How often did I fall during these final stages, while the stormsragedwithout?Butenoughofthisnonsense.Iwasneveranywherebuthere,nooneevergotmeoutofhere.Enoughofactingtheinfantwhohasbeentoldsooftenhowhewasfoundunderacabbagethatintheendherememberstheexactspot in the garden and the kind of life he led there before joining the familycircle. Therewill be nomore fromme about bodies and trajectories, sky andearth,Idon’tknowwhatitallis.Theyhavetoldme,explainedtome,describedtome, what it all is, what it looks like, what it’s all for, one after the other,thousandsoftimes,inthousandsofconnections,untilImusthavebeguntolookas if I understood. Who would ever think, to hear me, that I’ve never seenanything,neverheardanythingbuttheirvoices?Andman,thelecturestheygavemeonmen,beforetheyevenbegantryingtoassimilatemetohim!WhatIspeakof,whatIspeakwith,allcomesfromthem.It’sall thesametome,butit’snogood,there’snoendto it. It’sofmenowImustspeak,evenif Ihavetodoitwith their language, it will be a start, a step towards silence and the end ofmadness,themadnessofhavingtospeakandnotbeingableto,exceptofthingsthat don’t concern me, that don’t count, that I don’t believe, that they havecrammedmefulloftopreventmefromsayingwhoIam,whereIam,andfromdoingwhat Ihave todo in theonlyway thatcanputanend to it, fromdoingwhatIhavetodo.Howtheymusthateme!Ahanicestatetheyhavemein,butstillI’mnottheircreature,notquite,notyet.Totestifytothem,untilIdie,asifthere was any dying with that tomfoolery, that’s what they’ve sworn they’llbringmeto.Nottobeabletoopenmymouthwithoutproclaimingthem,andourfellowship,that’swhattheyimaginethey’llhavemereducedto.It’sapoortrickthatconsists in ramminga setofwordsdownyourgulleton theprinciple thatyoucan’tbringthemupwithoutbeingbrandedasbelongingtotheirbreed.ButI’llfixtheirgibberishforthem.Ineverunderstoodawordofitinanycase,notawordofthestoriesitspews,likegobbetsinavomit.Myinabilitytoabsorb,mygeniusforforgetting,aremorethantheyreckonedwith.Dearincomprehension,it’s thankstoyouI’llbemyself, in theend.Nothingwillremainofall theliestheyhavegluttedmewith.AndI’llbemyselfatlast,asastarvelingbelcheshisodourlesswind,beforetheblissofcoma.Butwho,they?Isitreallyworthwhileinquiring?Withmycoggedmeans?No,butthat’snoreasonnotto.Ontheirownground, with their own arms, I’ll scatter them, and their miscreated puppets.Perhaps I’ll find traces of myself by the same occasion. That’s decided then.

Whatisstrangeisthattheyhaven’tbeenpesteringmeforsometimepast,yes,they’ve inflicted the notion of time on me too. What conclusion, using theirmethods, am I to draw from this? Mahood is silent, that is to say his voicecontinues,butisnolongerrenewed.Dotheyconsidermesoplasteredwiththeirrubbish that I can never extricatemyself, nevermake a gesture but their castmustcometolife?Butwithin,motionless,Icanlive,andutterme,fornoearsbutmyown.Theyloadedmedownwiththeirtrappingsandstonedmethroughthe carnival. I’ll sham dead now, whom they couldn’t bring to life, and mymonster’scarapacewillrotoffme.Butit’sentirelyamatterofvoices,noothermetaphorisappropriate.They’veblownmeupwiththeirvoices,likeaballoon,andevenasIcollapseit’sthemIhear.Who,them?Andwhynothingmorefromthem lately? Can it be they have abandoned me, saying, Very well, there’snothingtobedonewithhim,let’sleaveitatthat,he’snotdangerous.Ahbutthelittlemurmurofunconsentingman,tomurmurwhatitistheirhumanitystifles,the little gasp of the condemned to life, rotting in his dungeon garrotted andracked,togaspwhatitistohavetocelebratebanishment,beware.No,theyhavenothingtofear,Iamwalledroundwiththeirvociferations,nonewilleverknowwhatIam,nonewilleverhearmesayit,Iwon’tsayit,Ican’tsayit,Ihavenolanguage but theirs, no, perhaps I’ll say it, even with their language, for mealone,soasnottohavenotlivedinvain,andsoastogosilent, if thatiswhatconferstherighttosilence,andit’sunlikely,it’stheywhohavesilenceintheirgift,theywhodecide,thesameoldgang,amongthemselves,nomatter,tohellwithsilence,I’llsaywhatIam,soasnottohavenotbeenbornfornothing,I’llfixtheirjargonforthem,thenanyoldthing,nomatterwhat,whatevertheywant,withawill, till timeisdone,at leastwithagoodgrace.FirstI’llsaywhatI’mnot, that’s how they taughtme to proceed, thenwhat I am, it’s already underway, I have only to resume at the point where I let myself be cowed. I amneither, I needn’t say,Murphy, norWatt, norMercier, nor – no, I can’t evenbringmyself to name them, nor anyof the otherswhose very names I forget,whotoldmeIwasthey,whoImusthavetriedtobe,underduress,or throughfear,ortoavoidacknowledgingme,nottheslightestconnection.Ineverdesired,never sought,never suffered,neverpartook inanyof that,neverknewwhat itwas tohave, things,adversaries,mind,senses.Butenoughof this.There isnousedenying,nouseharpingonthesameoldthingIknowsowell,andsoeasytosay,andwhichsimplyamountsintheendtospeakingyetagaininthewaytheyintendmetospeak,thatistosayaboutthem,evenwithexecrationanddisbelief.Perhaps they exist in theway they have decreedwill bemine, it’s possible, I

don’tknowandI’mnotinterested.IftheyhadtaughtmehowtowishI’dwishthey did. There’s no getting rid of them without naming them and theircontraptions, that’s the thing to keep inmind. Imight as well tell another ofMahood’sstoriesandnomoreaboutit,tobeunderstoodinthewayIwasgivento understand it, namely as being about me. That’s an idea. To heighten mydisgust.I’llreciteit.ThiswillleavemefreetoconsiderhowImaybestproceedwith my own affair, beginning again at the point where I had to interrupt it,underduress,orthroughfear,orthroughignorance.Itwillbethelaststory.I’lltryandlookasifIwastellingitwillingly,tokeepthemquietincasetheyshouldfeel like refreshingmymemory, on the subject ofmy behaviour above in theisland,amongmycompatriots,contemporaries,coreligionistsandcompanionsindistress.Thiswill leaveme free to consider how to set about showingmyselfforth.Noonewillbeanythewiser.Butwhoarethesemaniacsletlooseonmefromonhighforwhattheycallmygood,letusfirsttryandthrowalittlelightonthat.Totellthetruth–no,firstthestory.Theisland,I’montheisland,I’veneverlefttheisland,Godhelpme.IwasundertheimpressionIspentmylifeinspiralsroundtheearth.Wrong, it’sontheislandIwindmyendlessways.Theisland, that’sall theearth Iknow.Idon’tknowiteither,neverhavinghad thestomach to look at it.When I come to the coast I turn back inland. Andmycourseisnothelicoidal,Igotthatwrongtoo,butasuccessionofirregularloops,now sharp and short as in thewaltz, nowof a parabolic sweep that embracesentire boglands, now between the two, somewhere or other, and invariablyunpredictableindirection,thatistosaydeterminedbythepanicofthemoment.ButattheperiodIrefertonowthisactivelifeisatanend,Idonotmoveandnever shall again,unless it beunder the impulsionof a thirdparty.For of thegreat traveller I had been, on my hands and knees in the later stages, thencrawlingonmybellyorrollingontheground,onlythetrunkremains(insorrytrim),surmountedbytheheadwithwhichwearealreadyfamiliar,thisisthepartofmyself thedescriptionofwhich I havebest assimilated and retained.Stucklikeasheafofflowersinadeepjar,itsneckflushwithmymouth,onthesideofaquietstreetneartheshambles,Iamatrestatlast.IfIturn,Ishallnotsaymyhead,butmyeyes,freetorollastheylist,Icanseethestatueoftheapostleofhorse’smeat,abust.Hispupillesseyesofstonearefixeduponme.Thatmakesfour,withthoseofmycreator,omnipresent,donotimagineIflattermyselfIamprivileged.ThoughnotexactlyinorderIamtoleratedbythepolice.TheyknowI am speechless and consequently incapable of taking unfair advantage ofmysituation to stir up the population against its governors, bymeans of burning

oratoryduringtherushhourorsubversivesloganswhispered,afternightfall,tobelatedpedestrianstheworsefordrink.AndsinceIhavelostallmymembers,withtheexceptionoftheone-timevirile,theyknowalsothatIshallnotbeguiltyofanygestures liable tobeconstruedas incitingtoalms,aprisonableoffence.The fact is I trouble no one, except possibly that category of hypersensitivepersonsforwhomtheleastthingisanoccasionforscandalandindignation.Butevenheretheriskisnegligible,suchpeopleavoidingtheneighbourhoodforfearof beingovercome at the sight of the cattle, fat and fresh from their pastures,trooping towards the humane killer. From this point of view the spot is wellchosen, from my point of view. And even those sufficiently unhinged to beaffected by the spectacle I offer, Imean upset and temporarily diminished intheir capacity for work and aptitude for happiness, need only look at me asecondtime,thosewhocanbringthemselvestodoit,tohaveimmediatelytheirminds made easy. For my face reflects nothing but the satisfaction of onesavouringawell-earnedrest.Itistruemymouthwashidden,mostofthetime,andmyeyesclosed.Ahyes,sometimesit’sinthepast,sometimesinthepresent.Andaloneperhapsthestateofmyskull,coveredwithpustulesandbluebottles,these latter naturally abounding in such a neighbourhood, preserved me frombeinganobjectofenvyformany,andasourceofdiscontent.Ihopethisgivesafairpictureofmysituation.OnceaweekIwas takenoutofmyreceptacle,sothat it might be emptied. This duty fell to the proprietress of the chophouseacrossthestreetandsheperformeditpunctuallyandwithoutcomplaint,beyondanoccasionalgood-naturedreflectiontotheeffectthatIwasanastyoldpig,forshehadakitchen-garden.Withoutperhapshavingexactlywonherheartitwasclear I did not leave her indifferent. And before putting me back she tookadvantage of the circumstance thatmymouthwas accessible to stick into it achunkof lightsoramarrowbone.Andwhen snow fell she coveredmewith atarpaulinstillwatertight inplaces.Itwasunder itsshelter,snuganddry, thatIbecame acquainted with the boon of tears, while wondering to what I wasindebtedforit,notfeelingmoved.Andthisnotmerelyonce,buteverytimeshecoveredme,thatistosaytwiceorthreetimesayear.Yes,itwasfatal,nosoonerhad the tarpaulin settledoverme, and theprecipitate steps ofmybenefactressdiedaway,thanthetearsbegantoflow.Isthis,wasthistobeinterpretedasaneffect of gratitude?But in that case should not I have felt grateful?Besides Irealiseddarklythatifshetookcareofmethus,itwasnotsolelyoutofgoodness,or else I had not rightly understood the meaning of goodness, when it wasexplained tome. Itmustnotbe forgotten that I representedfor thiswomanan

undeniable asset. For quite apart from the services I rendered to her lettuce, Iconstituted for her establishment a kind of landmark, not to say anadvertisement, far more effective than for example a chef in cardboard, pot-bellied in profile and full facewafer thin. That shewaswell aware of this isshownbythetroubleshehadtakentofestoonmyjarwithChineselanterns,ofaveryprettyeffectinthetwilight,andafortioriinthenight.Andthejaritself,sothat thepasser-bymightconsultwithgreaterease themenuattached to it, hadbeenraisedonapedestalatherownexpense.ItisthusIlearntthatherturnipsingravyarenotsogoodastheyusedtobe,butthatontheotherhandhercarrots,equallyingravy,areevenbetterthanformerly.Thegravyhasnotvaried.ThisisthekindoflanguageIcanalmostunderstand,thesethekindofclearandsimplenotions on which it is possible for me to build, I ask for no other spiritualnourishment. A turnip, I know roughly what a turnip is like, a carrot too,particularlytheFlakkee,orColmarRed.Iseemtograspatcertainmomentsthenuancethatdividesbadfromworse.AndifIdonotalwaysfeelthefullforceofyesterdayandtoday,thisdoesnotdetractverymuchfromthesatisfactionIfeelat having penetrated the gist of thematter.Of her salad, for example, I neverheardanythingbutpraise.Yes, I represent forhera tidy little capital and, if Ishould ever happen to die, I am convinced she would be genuinely annoyed.Thisshouldhelpmetolive.Iliketofancythatwhenthefatalhourofreckoningcomes,ifiteverdoes,andmydebttonatureispaidoffatlast,shewilldoherbesttopreventtheremoval,fromwhereitnowstands,oftheoldvaseinwhichIshallhaveaccomplishedmyvicissitudes.Andperhapsintheplacenowoccupiedbymyheadshewillsetamelon,oravegetable-marrow,orabigpineapplewithitslittletuft,orbetterstill,Idon’tknowwhy,aswede,inmemoryofme.ThenIshallnotvanishquite,asissooftenthewaywithpeoplewhenburied.Butitisnot to speak of her that I have started lying again. De nobis ipsis silemus,decidedlythatshouldhavebeenmymotto.Yes, theygavemesomelessonsinpigstyLatintoo,itlookswell,sprinkledthroughtheperjury.Itisperhapsworthnoting that snow alone, provided of course it is heavy, entitles me to thetarpaulin.Nootherformoffilthyweatherletslooseinherthematernalinstinct,in my favour. I have tried to make her understand, dashing my head angrilyagainsttheneckofthejar,thatIshouldliketobeshroudedmoreoften.Atthesame timeI letmyspittle flowover, inanattempt toshowmydispleasure. Invain. I wonder what explanation she can have found to account for thisbehaviour.ShemusthavetalkeditoverwithherhusbandandprobablybeentoldthatIwasmerelystifling, that is just thereverseof the truth.Butcreditwhere

creditisdue,wemadeaballsofitbetweenus,Iwithmysignsandshewithherreadingofthem.Thisstoryisnogood,I’mbeginningalmosttobelieveit.Butletusseehowit issupposedtoend,thatwillsoberme.ThetroubleisIforgethow it goes on. But did I ever know? Perhaps it stops there, perhaps theystoppeditthere,saying,whoknows,Thereyouarenow,youdon’tneedusanymore.Thisinfactisoneoftheirfavouritedevices,tostopsuddenlyattheleastsignofadhesionfromme,leavingmehighanddry,withnothingformyrenewalbutthelifetheyhaveimputedtome.Anditisonlywhentheyseemestrandedthat they take up again the thread of my misfortunes, judging me stillinsufficiently vitalised to bring them to a successful conclusion alone. Butinstead of making the junction, I have often noticed this, I mean instead ofresumingmeatthepointwhereIwasleftoff,theypickmeupatamuchlaterstage,perhapstherebyhopingtoinduceinmetheillusionthatIhadgotthroughtheintervalallonmyown,livedwithouthelpofanykindforquitesometime,andwith no recollection of bywhatmeans or inwhat circumstances, or evendied,allonmyown,andcomebacktoearthagain,bywayofthevaginalikeareal live baby, and reached a ripe age, and even senility, without the leastassistancefromthemandthankssolelytothehintstheyhadgivenme.Tosaddlemewithalifetimeisprobablynotenoughforthem,Ihavetobegivenatasteoftwoorthreegenerations.Butit’snotcertain.Perhapsalltheyhavetoldmehasreferencetoasingleexistence,theconfusionofidentitiesbeingmerelyapparentanddue tomy inaptitude to assumeany. If I ever succeed in dying undermyown steam, then theywill be in a better position to decide if I amworthy toadorn another age, or to try the same one again, with the benefit of myexperience. I may therefore perhaps legitimately suppose that the one-armedone-leggedwayfarerof amoment agoand thewedge-headed trunk inwhich Iamnowmaroonedaresimplytwophasesofthesamecarnalenvelope,thesoulbeingnotoriously immune fromdeteriorationanddismemberment.Having lostone leg, what indeed more likely than that I should mislay the other? Andsimilarly for thearms.Anatural transition insum.Butwhat thenof thatotheroldagetheybestoweduponme,ifIrememberright,andthatothermiddleage,when neither legs nor arms were lacking, but simply the power to profit bythem?Andofthatkindofyouthinwhichtheyhadtogivemeupfordead?IfIhaveawarmplace,itisnotintheirhearts.OhIdon’tsaytheyhaven’tdoneallthey could to be agreeable to me, to get me out of here, on no matter whatpretext,innomatterwhatdisguise.AllIreproachthemwithistheirinsistence.For beyond them is that otherwhowill not giveme quittance until they have

abandonedmeas inutilisableandrestoredme tomyself.Thenat last I can setaboutsayingwhatIwas,andwhere,duringallthislonglosttime.Butwhoishe,ifmyguess is right,who iswaiting for that, fromme?Andwho these otherswhosedesignsaresodifferent?AndintowhosehandsIplaywhenIaskmyselfsuchquestions?ButdoI,doI?InthejardidIaskmyselfquestions?Andinthearena?Ihavedwindled,Idwindle.Notsolongago,withakindofshrinkofmyhead and shoulders, as when one is scolded, I could disappear. Soon, at mypresent rate of decrease, Imay sparemyself this effort.And sparemyself thetroubleofclosingmyeyes,soasnottoseetheday,fortheyareblindedbythejarafewinchesaway.AndIhaveonlytoletmyheadfallforwardagainstthewalltobesurethatthelightfromabove,whichatnightisthatofthemoon,willnotbereflectedthereeither,inthoselittlebluemirrors,Iusedtolookatmyselfinthem,totryandbrightenthem.Wrongagain,wrongagain,thiseffortandthistrouble will not be spared me. For the woman, displeased at seeing me sinklowerandlower,hasraisedmeupbyfillingthebottomofmyjarwithsawdustwhichshechangeseveryweek,whenshemakesmytoilet. It issofter thanthestone,butlesshygienic.AndIhadgotusedtothestone.NowI’mgettingusedto the sawdust. It’s anoccupation. I could never bear to be idle, it saps one’senergy.And I open and closemy eyes, open and close, as in the past.And Imovemyheadinandout,inandout,asheretofore.Andoftenatdawn,havingleftitoutallnight,Ibringitin,tomockthewomanandleadherastray.Forinthemorning,whenshehasrattleduphershutters,thefirstlookofhereyesstillmoistwith fornication is for the jar.Andwhen shedoesnot seemy head shecomesrunningtofindoutwhathashappened.ForeitherIhaveescapedduringthenightorelseIhaveshrunkagain.ButjustbeforeshereachesmeIupwithitlikeajack-in-the-box,theoldeyesglaringupather.ImentionedIcannotturnmyhead,andthisis true,myneckhavingstiffenedprematurely.But thisdoesnotmeanitisalwaysfacinginthesamedirection.ForwithakindoftossingandwrithingIsucceedinimpartingtomytrunkthedegreeofrotationrequired,andnotmerelyinonedirection,butintheotheralso.Mylittlegame,whichIshouldhave thought inoffensive, has costmedear, andyet I couldhave sworn Iwasinsolvable. It is true one does not know one’s riches until they are lost and Iprobablyhaveothers still thatonlyawait the thief tobebrought tomynotice.Andtoday,ifIcanstillopenandclosemyeyes,asinthepast,Icannolonger,becauseofmyroguishcharacter,movemyheadinandout,asinthegoodolddays. For a collar, fixed to themouth of the jar, now encirclesmy neck, justbelowthechin.Andmylipswhichused tobehidden,andwhich I sometimes

pressedagainst the freshnessof thestone,cannowbe seenbyall and sundry.Did I say I catch flies? I snap themup, clack!Does thismean I still havemyteeth?Tohavelostone’slimbsandpreservedone’sdentition,whatamockery!Buttorevertnowtothegloomysideofthisaffair,Imaysaythatthiscollar,orring,ofcement,makesitveryawkwardformetoturn,inthewayIhavesaid.Itake advantage of this to learn to stay quiet.Tohave forever beforemy eyes,whenIopenthem,approximatelythesamesetofhallucinationsexactly,isajoyImightneverhaveknown,butformycang.Thereisreallyonlyonethingthatworriesme,andthatistheprospectofbeingthrottledifIshouldeverhappentoshorten further.Asphyxia! Iwhowasalways the respiratory type,witness thisthorax still mine, together with the abdomen. I who murmured, each time Ibreathed in,Herecomesmoreoxygen,andeach timeIbreathedout,Theregothe impurities, the blood is bright red again. The blue face! The obsceneprotrusion of the tongue! The tumefaction of the penis! The penis, well now,that’sanicesurprise,I’dforgottenIhadone.WhatapityIhavenoarms,theremightstillbesomethingtobewrungfromit.No,’tisbetterthus.Atmyage,tostartmanstupratingagain,itwouldbeindecent.Andfruitless.Andyetonecannever tell.With a yo heave ho, concentratingwith allmymight on a horse’srump,atthemomentwhenthetailrises,whoknows,Imightnotgoaltogetherempty-handedaway.Heaven,Ialmostfeltitflutter!Doesthismeantheydidnotgeldme?Icouldhavesworntheyhadgeltme.ButperhapsIamgettingmixedupwithotherscrota.Notanotherstiroutofitinanycase.I’llconcentrateagain.AClydesdale.ASuffolkstallion.Comecome,alittlecooperationplease,finishdying,it’stheleastyoumightdo,afterallthetroublethey’vetakentobringyouto life. The worst is over. You’ve been sufficiently assassinated, sufficientlysuicided,tobeablenowtostandonyourownfeet,likeabigboy.That’swhatIkeeptellingmyself.AndIadd,quitecarriedaway,Sloughoffthismortalinertia,itisoutofplace,inthissociety.Theycan’tdoeverything.Theyhaveputyouontherightroad,ledyoubythehandtotheverybrinkoftheprecipice,nowit’supto you, with an unassisted last step, to show them your gratitude. I like thiscolourful language, these bold metaphors and apostrophes. Through thesplendoursofnature theydraggedaparalyticandnowthere’snothingmore toadmire it’smyduty to jump, that itmaybe said,Theregoes anotherwhohaslived.ItdoesnotseemtooccurtothemthatIwasneverthere, that thisglassyeye, this fallen chap and the foam at the mouth owe nothing to the Bay ofNaples,orAubervilliers.Thelaststep!Iwhocouldnevermanagethefirst.ButperhapstheywouldconsiderthemselvessufficientlyrewardedifIsimplywaited

for the wind to blow me over. That by all means, it’s in my repertory. Thetroubleisthereisnowindequaltoit.Thecliffwouldhavetocaveinunderme.IfonlyIwerealiveinsideonemightlookforwardtoheart-failure,or toanicelittle infarctus somewhereor other. It’s usuallywith sticks theyputmeoutoftheiragony,theideabeingtodemonstrate,tothebackers,andbystanders,thatIhadabeginning,andanend.Thenplantingthefootonmychest,whereallisasusual,totheassembly,Ahifyouhadseenhimfiftyyearsago,whatpush,whatgo!Knowingperfectlywelltheyhavetobeginmealloveragain.ButperhapsIexaggeratemyneedofthem.Iaccusemyselfofinertia,andyetImove,atleastIdid,canIbyanychancehavemissedthetide?Letusconsiderthehead.Theresomethingseemstostir,fromtimetotime,noreasonthereforetodespairofafitof apoplexy. What else? The organs of digestion and evacuation, thoughsluggish, are notwholly inactive, as is shown by the attentions I receive. It’sencouraging.While there’s life there’shope.Theflies,consideredas traumaticagents,hardlycallformention.Isupposetheymightbringmetyphus.No,that’srats.Ihaveseenafew,buttheyarenotyetreducedtome.Alowlytapeworm?Notinteresting.ItisclearinanycasethatIhavelosthearttoolightly,itisquitepossible I have all that is required to give them satisfaction. But already I’mbeginning tobe therenomore, in that calamitous street theymade so clear tome.Icoulddescribeit,Icouldhave,amomentago,asifIhadbeenthere,intheform they chose for me, diminished certainly, not the man I was, not muchlonger for this world, but the eyes still open to impressions, and one ear,sufficiently, and the head sufficiently obedient, to provide me at least with avagueideaoftheelementstobeeliminatedfromthesettinginorderforalltobeemptyandsilent.Thatwasalwaystheway.Justatthemomentwhentheworldisassembledatlast,anditbeginstodawnonmehowIcanleaveit,allfadesanddisappears.Ishallneverseethisplaceagain,wheremyjarstandsonitspedestal,withitsgarlandofmany-colouredlanterns,andmeinsideit,Icouldnotclingtoit.Perhapstheywillhavemestruckbylightning,forachange,orpoleaxed,onemerrybank-holidayevening,thenbundledinmyshroudandwhiskedaway,outof sight and mind. Or removed alive, for a change, shifted and depositedelsewhere,ontheoffchance.Andatmynextappearance,ifIeverappearagain,allwillbenew,newandstrange.ButlittlebylittleI’llgetusedtoit,admonishedbythem,usedtothescene,usedtome,andlittlebylittletheoldproblemwillraise its horrid head, how to live,with their kind of life, for a single second,youngorold,withoutaidandassistance.Andthusremindedofotherattempts,inothercircumstances,Ishallstartaskingmyselfquestions,promptedbythem,

likethoseIhavebeenasking,concerningme,andthem,andthesesuddenshiftsof timeandage,andhowtosucceedat lastwhere Ihadalways failed, so thattheymaybepleasedwithme,andperhapsleavemeinpeaceatlast,andfreetodowhatIhavetodo,namelytryandpleasetheother,ifthatiswhatIhavetodo,sothathemaybepleasedwithme,andleavemeinpeaceatlast,andgivemequittance,andtherighttorest,andsilence,ifthatisinhisgift.It’salottoexpectofonecreature, it’sa lot toask, thathe should first behaveas if hewerenot,thenasifhewere,beforebeingadmittedtothatpeacewhereheneitheris,norisnot, and where the language dies that permits of such expressions. Twofalsehoods,twotrappings,tobebornetotheend,beforeIcanbeletloose,alone,intheunthinkableunspeakable,whereIhavenotceasedtobe,wheretheywillnotletmebe.ItwillperhapsbelessrestfulthanIappeartothink,alonethereatlast, and never importuned. No matter, rest is one of their words, think isanother.Buthereatlast,itseemstome,isfoodfordelirium.WhatashameifIshould pitch on something and never notice it, another candle throw its littlelightandIbenonethewiser.Yes,Ifeel themomenthascomeformetolookback,ifIcan,andtakemybearings,ifIamtogoon.IfonlyIknewwhatIhavebeensaying.Bah,noneedtoworry,itcanonlyhavebeenonething,thesameasever.Ihavemyfaults,butchangingmytuneisnotoneofthem.Ihaveonlytogoon,asiftherewassomethingtobedone,somethingbegun,somewheretogo.It all boils down to a question of words, I must not forget this, I have notforgottenit.ButImusthavesaidthisbefore,sinceIsayitnow.Ihavetospeakinacertainway,withwarmthperhaps,allispossible,firstofthecreatureIamnot,asifIwerehe,andthen,asifIwerehe,ofthecreatureIam.BeforeIcan,etc.It’saquestionofvoices,ofvoicestokeepgoing,intherightmanner,whenthey stop, on purpose, to putme to the test, as now the onewhose burden isroughlytotheeffectthatIamalive.Warmth,ease,conviction,therightmanner,asifitweremyownvoice,pronouncingmyownwords,wordspronouncingmealive,sincethat’showtheywantmetobe,Idon’tknowwhy,withtheirbillionsofquick,theirtrillionsofdead,that’snotenoughforthem,Itoomustcontributemy little convulsion, mewl, howl, gasp and rattle, loving my neighbour andblessedwithreason.Butwhatistherightmanner,Idon’tknow.Itistheywhodictatethistorrentofballs,theywhostuffedmefullofthesegroansthatchokeme.Andout itallpoursunchanged,Ihaveonly tobelchtobesureofhearingthem,thesameoldsourteachingsIcan’tchangeatittleof.Aparrot,that’swhatthey’reupagainst,aparrot.If theyhadtoldmewhatIhavetosay,inordertomeetwiththeirapproval,I’dbeboundtosayit,soonerorlater.ButGodforbid,

thatwouldbetooeasy,myheartwouldn’tbeinit,Ihavetopukemyheartouttoo,spewitupwholealongwiththerestofthevomit,it’sthenatlastI’lllookasif Imeanwhat I’m saying, itwon’tbe just idlewords.Well, don’t losehope,keepyourmouthopenandyourstomachturned,perhapsyou’llcomeoutwithitoneofthesedays.Buttheothervoice,ofhimwhodoesnotsharethispassionfortheanimalkingdom,whoiswaitingtohearfromme,what is itsburden?Nicepoint,tooniceforme.Foronthesubjectofmeproperlysocalled,IknowwhatImean,sofarasIknowIhavereceivednoinformationuptodate.Mayonespeakofavoice, in theseconditions?Probablynot.AndyetIdo.Thefact isall thisbusiness about voices requires to be revised, corrected and then abandoned.Hearingnothing Iamnone the lessaprey tocommunications.AndIspeakofvoices!Afterall,whynot,solongasoneknowsit’suntrue.Buttherearelimits,it appears.Let them come. So nothing aboutme.That is to say no connectedstatement.Faintcalls, at long intervals.Hearme!Beyourselfagain!Someonehasthereforesomethingtosaytome.Butnevertheleastnewsconcerningme,beyondtheinsinuationthatIamnotinaconditiontoreceiveany,sinceIamnotthere, which I knew already. I have naturally remarked, in a moment ofexceptionalreceptivity,thattheseexhortationsareconveyedtomebythesamechannelasthatusedbyMaloneandCo.fortheirtransports.That’ssuspicious,orratherwouldbeifIstillhopedtoobtain,fromtheserevelationstocome,sometruthofmorevaluethanthoseIhavebeenplasteredwitheversincetheytookitinto theirheadsIhadbetterexist.But this fondhope,whichbuoyedmeupasrecentlyasamomentago, if I rememberright,hasnowpassedfromme.Twolabours then, to bedistinguishedperhaps, as themine from thequarry, on theplane of the effort required, but identically deficient in charm and interest. I.Who might that be? The galley-man, bound for the Pillars of Hercules, whodropshis sweepundercoverofnightandcrawlsbetween the thwarts, towardstherisingsun,unseenbytheguard,prayingforstorm.ExceptthatI’vestoppedprayingforanything.Nono,I’mstillasuppliant.I’llgetoverit,betweennowandthelastvoyage,onthisleadensea.It’sliketheothermadness,themadwishtoknow,toremember,one’stransgressions.Iwon’tbecaughtatthatagain,I’llleaveittothisyear’sdamned.Andnowletusthinknomoreaboutit,thinknomoreaboutanything,thinknomore.Healoneortheyamany,allsolicitmeinthesametongue,theonlyonetheytaughtme.Theytoldmetherewereothers,Idon’tregretnotknowingthem.Themomentthesilenceisbrokeninthiswayitcan only mean one thing. Orders, prayers, threats, praise, reproach, reasons.Praise, yes, they gave me to understand I was making progress. Well done,

sonny,thatwillbeall for today,runalongnowbacktoyourdarkandseeyoutomorrow. And there I am, with my white beard, sitting among the children,babbling, cringing from the rod. I’ll die in the lower third, bowed downwithyearsandimpositions,fourfoottallagain,likewhenIhadafuture,bare-leggedinmyoldblackpinafore,wettingmydrawers.PupilMahood,forthetwenty-fivethousandth time,what isamammal?AndI’ll falldowndead,wornoutby therudiments.But I’llhavemadeprogress, they toldmeso,onlynotenough,notenough.Ah!WherewasI,inmylessons?Thatiswhathashadafataleffectonmydevelopment,mylackofmemory,nodoubtaboutit.PupilMahood, repeatafterme,Manisahighermammal.Icouldn’t.Alwaystalkingaboutmammals,in thismenagerie.Frankly,betweenourselves,what thehell could itmatter topupilMahood,thatmanwasthisratherthanthat?Presumablynothinghasbeenlost in any case, since here it all comes slobbering out again, let loose by thenightmare.I’llhavemybellyfulofmammals,Icanseethatfromhere,beforeIwake.Quick,givemeamotherandletmesuckherwhite,pinchingmytits.Butit’s time I gave this solitary a name, nothing doing without proper names. Itherefore baptise him Worm. It was high time. Worm. I don’t like it, but Ihaven’t much choice. It will be my name too, when the time comes, when Ineedn’t be called Mahood any more, if that happy time ever comes. BeforeMahoodtherewereotherslikehim,ofthesamebreedandcreed,armedwiththesameprong.ButWormisthefirstofhiskind.That’ssoonsaid.ImustnotforgetIdon’tknowhim.Perhapshetoowillweary,renouncethetaskofformingmeandmakewayforanother,havinglaidthefoundations.Hehasnotyetbeenabletospeakhismind,onlymurmur, Ihavenotceased tohearhismurmur,all thewhiletheothersdiscoursed.Hehassurvivedthemall,Mahoodtoo,ifMahoodisdead. I can hear him yet, faithful, beggingme to still this dead tongue of theliving.Iimaginethatiswhathesays,inhisunchangingtone.IfIcouldbesilentIwouldbetterunderstandwhathewantsofme,wantsmetobe,wantsmetosay.Whydoesn’thethunderitatmeandgetitover?Tooeasy,itisIwhomustbesilent,holdmybreath.Butthereissomethingwronghere.ForifMahoodweresilent,Wormwouldbe silent too.That the impossible shouldbe askedofme,good,whatelsecouldbeaskedofme?Buttheabsurd!Ofmewhomtheyhavereducedtoreason.ItistruepoorWormisnottoblameforthis.That’ssoonsaid.Butletmecompletemyviews,beforeIshitonthem.ForifIamMahood,IamWormtoo,plop.OrifIamnotyetWorm,IshallbewhenIceasetobeMahood,plop. On now to serious matters. No, not yet. Another of Mahood’s yarnsperhaps,toperfectmybesotment.No,notworththetrouble,itwillcomeatits

appointed hour, the record is in position from time immemorial. Yes, the bigwordsmustouttoo,allbetakenasitcomes.Theproblemoflibertytoo,assureas fate,will comeup formyconsiderationat thepre-establishedmoment. ButperhapsIhavebeentoohastyinopposingthesetwofomentersoffiasco.Isitnotthe fault of one that I cannot be the other?Accomplices therefore. That’s thewaytoreason,warmly.Orisonetopostulateatertiusgaudens,meaningmyself,responsible for the double failure? Shall I come uponmy true countenance atlast,bathinginasmile?IhavethefeelingIshallbesparedthisspectacle.AtnomomentdoIknowwhatI’mtalkingabout,norofwhom,norofwhere,norhow,norwhy,butIcouldemployfiftywretchesforthissinisteroperationandstillbeshortofa fifty-first, toclose thecircuit, that Iknow,withoutknowingwhat itmeans.Theessentialisnevertoarriveanywhere,nevertobeanywhere,neitherwhereMahoodis,norwhereWormis,norwhereIam,itlittlemattersthankstowhatdispensation.Theessentialistogoonsquirmingforeverattheendoftheline, as long as there arewaters and banks and ravening in heaven a sportingGodtoplaguehiscreature,perprohischosenshits.I’veswallowedthreehooksand am still hungry.Hence the howls.What a joy to knowwhere one is, andwhere one will stay, without being there. Nothing to do but stretch outcomfortably on the rack, in the blissful knowledge you are nobody for alleternity.ApityIshouldhavetogivetongueatthesametime,itpreventsitfrombleedinginpeace,lickingthelips.WellIsupposeonecan’thaveeverything,solateintheproceedings.They’llsurelybringmetothesurfaceonedayoranotherandallthensinktheirdifferencesandagreeitwasnotworthwhilegoingtosomuch trouble for such a paltry kill, for such paltry killers.What silence then!Andnowlet’sseewhatnewsthereisofWorm,justtopleasetheoldbastard.I’llsoonknowiftheotherisstillafterme.Butevenifheisn’tnothingwillcomeofit,hewon’tcatchme,Iwon’tbedeliveredfromhim,ImeanWorm,Iswearit,theothernevercaughtme,Iwasneverdeliveredfromhim,it’spasthistory,upto thepresent. Iamhewhowillneverbecaught,neverdelivered,whocrawlsbetweenthethwarts,towardsthenewdaythatpromisestobeglorious,festoonedwith lifebelts, praying for rack and ruin. The third line falls plumb from theskies,it’sforhermajestymysoul,I’dhavehookedheronitlongagoifIknewwheretofindher.Thatbringsusuptofour,gatheredtogether.Iknewit, theremightbeahundredofusandstillwe’dlackthehundredandfirst,we’llalwaysbeshortofme.Worm,InearlysaidWatt,Worm,whatcanIsayofWorm,whohasn’tthewittomakehimselfplain,whattostillthisgnawingoftermitesinmyPunch and Judy box, what that might not just as well be said of the other?

Perhaps it’sby trying tobeWormthat I’ll finallysucceed inbeingMahood, Ihadn’t thoughtof that.Thenall I’llhave todo isbeWorm.Whichnodoubt Ishall achieveby trying tobe Jones.Thenall I’ll have todo isbe Jones.Stop,perhapshe’llsparemethat,havecompassionandletmestop.Thedawnwillnotbealways rosy.Worm,Worm, it’sbetween the threeofusnow,and thedeviltake the hindmost. It seems to me besides that I must have already made,contrary towhat it seems tome Imusthavealready said, someefforts in thisdirection.Ishouldhavenotedthem,ifonlyinmyhead.ButWormcannotnote.Thereat least isafirstaffirmation, Imeannegation,onwhich tobuild.Wormcannot note. Can Mahood note? That’s it, weave, weave. Yes, it is thecharacteristic, among others, of Mahood to note, even if he does not alwayssucceedindoingso,certainthings,perhapsIshouldsayallthings,soastoturnthemtoaccount,forhisgovernance.Andindeedwehaveseenhimdoso,intheyard,inhisjar,inasense.IknewIhadonlytotryandtalkofWormtobegintalkingofMahood,withmorefelicityandunderstandingthanever.Howclosetomehesuddenlyseems,squintingupatthemedalsofthehippophagistDucroix.Itisthehouroftheapéritif,alreadypeoplepause,toreadthemenu.Charminghourof theday,particularlywhen,assometimeshappens, it isalso thatof thesetting sun whose last rays, raking the street from end to end, lend to mycenotaphaninterminableshadow,astraddleofthegutterandthesidewalk.TherewasatimeIusedtocontemplateit,whenIwasfreertoturnmyheadthannow,sincebeingputinthecollar.Thenoverthere,farfromme,Iknewmyheadwaslying,andpeopletreadingonit,andonmyflies,whichwentonglidingnonetheless,prettilyonthedarkground.AndIsawthepeoplecomingtowardsme,allalongmyshadow,followedbylongfaithfultremblingshadows.ForsometimesIconfusemyselfwithmyshadow,andsometimesdon’t.AndsometimesIdon’tconfusemyselfwithmyjar,andsometimesdo.Italldependswhatmoodwe’rein.AndoftenIwentonlookingwithoutflinchinguntil,ceasingtobe,Iceasedtosee.Delicious instant truly,coinciding from time to time, asalreadyobserved,withthatof theapéritif.But this joy,whichformypart Ishouldhave thoughtharmless,andwithoutdangerfor thepublic, issomethingIhavetogowithoutnow that the collar holdsmy face turned towards the railings, just above themenu, for it is important that the prospective customer should be able tocomposehismealwithouttheriskofbeingrunover.Themeat,inthisquarter,hasahighreputation,andpeoplecomefromadistance,fromgreatdistances,onpurposetorelishit.Whichhavingdonetheyhurryaway.Byteno’clockintheevening all is silent, as the grave, as they say. Such is the fruit of my

observationsaccumulatedoveralongperiodofyearsandconstantlysubjectedtoaprocessofinduction.Herealliskillingandeating.Thiseveningthereistripe.It’sawinterdish,oralateautumnone.SoonMargueritewillcomeandlightmeup.Sheislate.Alreadymorethanonepasser-byhasflashedhislighterundermynose the better to decipher what I shall now describe, by way of elegantvariation,asthebilloffare.PleaseGodnothinghashappenedtomyprotectress.I shall not hear her coming, I shall not hear her steps, because of the snow. Ispentallmorningundermycover.Whenthefirstfrostscomeshemakesmeanestofrags,welltuckedinallroundme,topreservemefromchills.It’ssnug.Iwonderwillshepowdermyskullthisevening,withhergreatpuff.It’sherlatestinvention. She’s always thinking of something new, to relieveme. If only theearthwouldquake!Theshamblesswallowmeup!Through the railings,at theendof a vista between twoblocks of buildings, the sky appears tome.Abarmovesoverandshutsitoff,wheneverIplease.IfIcouldraisemyheadI’dseeitstreaming into the main of the firmament. What is there to add, to theseparticulars?Theeveningisstillyoung,Iknowthat,don’tletusgojustyet,notyetsaygoodbyeoncemoreforever,tothisheapofrubbish.Whatabouttryingtocogitate,whilewaiting for something intelligible to takeplace? Just this once.Almost immediatelya thoughtpresents itself, I should reallyconcentratemoreoften.Quick let me record it before it vanishes. How is it the people do notnoticeme?IseemtoexistfornonebutMadeleine.Thatapasser-bypressedfortime, inheadlong flightorhotpursuit, shouldhavenoeyes forme, that I canconceive.Buttheidlerscometohearthecattle’sbellowsofpainandwho,timeobviouslyheavyontheirhands,paceupanddownwaitingfortheslaughtertobegin?Thehungrycompelledbythepositionofthemenu,andwhethertheylikeitornot,topostthemselvesliterallyfacetofacewithme,inthefullblastofmybreath? The children on their way to and from their playgrounds beyond thegates,alloutforabitoffun?Itseemstomethatevenahumanhead,recentlywashedandwitha fewhairson top,shouldbequiteapopularcuriosity in thepositionoccupiedbymine.Canitbeoutofdiscretion,andareluctancetohurt,that they affect to be unaware of my existence? But this is a refinement offeelingwhichcanhardlybeattributedtothedogsthatcomepissingagainstmyabode, apparently never doubting that it contains some flesh and bones. Itfollows therefore that Ihavenosmelleither.Andyet ifanyoneshouldhaveasmell, it is I.How, under these conditions, canMahood expectme to behavenormally?Thefliesvouchforme,ifyoulike,buthowfar?Wouldtheynotsettlewithequalappetiteonalumpofcowshit?No,aslongasthispointisnotcleared

uptomysatisfaction,oraslongasIamnotdistinguishedbysomesenseorgansother thanMadeleine’s, itwill be impossible forme tobelieve, sufficiently topursuemyact, the things thatare toldaboutme. Ishouldfurther remark,withregardtothistestimonywhichIconsiderindispensable,thatIshallsoonbeinnofitconditiontoreceiveit,sogreatlyhavemyfacultiesdeclined,inrecenttimes.Itisobviouswehavehereaprincipleofchangepregnantwithpossibilities.ButsayIsucceedindying,toadoptthemostcomfortablehypothesis,withouthavingbeenabletobelieveIeverlived,Iknowtomycostitisnotthattheywishforme.Forithashappenedtomemanytimesalready,withouttheirhavinggrantedmeasmuchasabriefsick-leaveamongtheworms,beforeresurrectingme.Butwho knows, this time, what the future holds in store. That qua sentient andthinkingbeingIshouldbegoingdownhillfastisinanycaseanexcellentthing.Perhaps some day some gentleman, chancing to pass my way with hissweetheartonhisarm,attheprecisemomentwhenmylastisfavouringmewithafinalsmackoftheflightoftime,willexclaim,loudenoughformetohear,OhIsay, thismanisailing,wemustcallanambulance!Thuswithasinglestone,whenallhopeseemedlost, the tworarebirds.Ishallbedead,butIshallhavelived.Unlessoneistosupposehimvictimofahallucination.Yes,todispelalldoubthisbetrothedwouldneedtosay,Youareright,mylove,helooksasifheweregoing to throwup.ThenI’dknowforcertainandgivingup theghostbeborn at last, to the soundperhaps of one of those hiccupswhichmar alas toooften the solemnity of the passing.WhenMahood I once knew a doctorwhoheld that scientifically speaking the latest breath could only issue from thefundament and this therefore, rather than the mouth, the orifice to which thefamilyshouldpresentthemirror,beforeopeningthewill.Howeverthismaybe,and without dwelling further on these macabre details, it is certain I wasgrievously mistaken in supposing that death in itself could be regarded asevidence,orevenastrongpresumption, insupportofapreliminarylife.AndIformy part have no longer the least desire to leave thisworld, inwhich theykeeptryingtofoistme,withoutsomekindofassurancethatIwasreallythere,suchasakickinthearse,forexample,orakiss,thenatureoftheattentionisoflittleimportance,providedIcannotbesuspectedofbeingitsauthor.Butlettwothirdpartiesremarkme,there,beforemyeyes,andI’lltakecareoftherest.Howallbecomesclearandsimplewhenoneopensaneyeon thewithin,havingofcoursepreviouslyexposedittothewithout,inordertobenefitbythecontrast.Ishouldbesorry, thoughexhaustedpersonally, toabandonprematurelythisrichvein.ForIshallnotcomebacktoitinahurry,ahno.Butenoughofthiscursed

first person, it is really too red a herring, I’ll get out ofmy depth if I’m notcareful.Butwhat thenis thesubject?Mahood?No,notyet.Worm?Evenless.Bah,anyoldpronounwilldo,providedoneseesthroughit.Matterofhabit.Tobeadjustedlater.WherewasI?Ahyes,theblissofwhatisclearandsimple.ThenextthingissomehowtoconnectthiswiththeunhappyMadeleineandhergreatgoodness.Attentions such ashers, thepertinacitywithwhich she continues toacknowledgeme, donot these sufficiently attestmy real presencehere, in theRueBrancion,neverheardofinmyislandhome?WouldsheridmeofmypaltryexcrementseverySunday,makemeanestattheapproachofwinter,protectmefrom the snow, change my sawdust, rub salt into my scalp, I hope I’m notforgettinganything,ifIwerenotthere?Wouldshehaveputmeinacang,raisedme on a pedestal, hung me with lanterns, if she were not convinced of mysubstantiality? How happy I should be to submit to this evidence and to theexecutionuponmeofthesentenceitentails.UnfortunatelyIregarditashighlysubject to caution, not to say unallowable. For what is one to think of theredoubled attentions she has been lavishing on me for some time past? Howdifferent from the serenity of our early relations,when I sawher only once aweek.No,thereisnogettingawayfromit,thiswomanislosingfaithinme.Andsheis tryingtoputoff themomentwhenshemustfinallyconfesshererrorbycomingevery fewminutes to see if I am stillmoreor less imaginable in situ.SimilarlythebeliefinGod,inallmodestybeitsaid,issometimeslostfollowingaperiodof intensifiedzealandobservance, itappears.HereIpause tomakeadistinction (Imustbe still thinking).That the jar is really standingwhere theysay,allright,Iwouldn’tdreamofdenyingit,afterallit’snoneofmybusiness,thoughitspresenceatsuchaplace,abouttherealityofwhichIdonotproposetoquibbleeither,doesnotstrikemeasverycredible.No,ImerelydoubtthatIaminit.Itiseasiertoraiseashrinethanbringthedeitydowntohauntit.Butwhat’sallthisconfusionnow?That’swhatcomesofdistinctions.Nomatter.Shelovesme,I’vealwaysfeltit.Sheneedsme.Herchop-house,herhusband,herchildrenifshehasany,arenotenough,thereisinheravoidthatIalonecanfill.Itisnotsurprising then she should have visions. There was a time I thought she wasperhaps a near relation,mother, sister, daughter, or such-like, perhaps even awife,andthatshewassequestratingme.ThatistosayMahood,seeinghowlittleimpressed I was by his chief witness, whispered this suggestion in my ear,adding,Ididn’tsayanything.Imustadmititisnotsopreposterousasitlooksatfirstsight,itevenaccountsforcertainbizarrerieswhichhadnotyetstruckmeatthe time of its formulation, among othersmy inexistence in the eyes of those

whoarenot in theknow,that is tosayallmankind.ButassumingIwasbeingstowedawayinapublicplace,whygotosuchtroubletodrawattentiontomyhead,artistically illuminatedfromdusk tomidnight?Youmayofcourseretortthat results are all that count. Another thing however. This woman has neverspoken to me, to the best of my knowledge. If I have said anything to thecontrary I was mistaken. If I say anything to the contrary again I shall bemistakenagain.UnlessIammistakennow.Intothedossierwithitinanycase,in support of whatever thesis you fancy. Never an affectionate word, never areprimand. For fear of bringing me to the public notice? Or lest the illusionshouldbedispelled?Ishallnowsumup.Themomentisathandwhenmyonlybelievermustdenyme.Nothinghashappened.Thelanternshavenotbeenlit.Isit thesameevening?Perhapsdinner isover.PerhapsMargueritehascomeandgone,comeagainandgoneagain,withoutmyhavingnoticedher.PerhapsIhaveblazedwithallmyusualbrilliance,forhoursonend,allunsuspecting.Andyetsomethinghaschanged.Itisnotanightlikeothernights.NotbecauseIseenostars, it is not often I see a star, away up in the depths of the sliver of sky Icommand.NotbecauseIdon’tseeanything,noteventherailings,thathasoftenhappened.Notbecauseof thesilenceeither, it isasilentplace,atnight.AndIam half-deaf. It is not the first time I have strained my ears in vain for thestables’muffledsounds.Allofasuddenahorsewillneigh.ThenI’llknowthatnothinghas changed.Or I’ll see the lantern of thewatchman, swinging knee-highintheyard.Imustbepatient.Itiscold,thismorningitsnowed.AndyetIdon’tfeelthecoldonmyhead.PerhapsIamstillunderthetarpaulin,perhapsshe flung it over me again, for fear of more snow in the night, while I wasmeditating.ButthesensationIsolove,ofthetarpaulinweighingonmyhead,islacking too.Hasmyhead lost all feeling?Ordid Ihavea stroke,while Iwasmeditating?Idon’tknow.Ishallbepatient,askingnomorequestions,onthequivive. Hours have passed, it must be day again, nothing has happened, I hearnothing.Iplacedthembeforetheirresponsibilities,perhapstheyhaveletmego.Forthisfeelingofbeingentirelyenclosed,andyetnothingtouchingme,isnew.Thesawdustnolongerpressesagainstmystumps,Idon’tknowwhereIend.Ileft ityesterday,Mahood’sworld, thestreet, thechop-house, theslaughter, thestatue and, through the railings, the sky like a slate-pencil. I shall never hearagainthelowingofthecattle,northeclinkingoftheforksandglasses,northeangryvoicesof thebutchers,nor the litanyof thedishesand theprices.Therewillneverbeanotherwomanwantingmeinvaintolive,myshadowateveningwill not darken theground.The storiesofMahoodare ended.Hehas realised

theycouldnotbeaboutme,hehasabandoned,itisIwhowin,whotriedsohardtolose,inordertopleasehim,andbeleftinpeace.Havingwon,shallIbeleftinpeace?Itdoesn’tlooklikeit,Iseemtobegoingontalking.Inanycaseallthesesuppositions are probably erroneous. I shall no doubt be launched again, girtwithbetterarms,againstthefortressofmortality.WhatismoreimportantisthatI should knowwhat is goingonnow, in order to announce it, asmy functionrequires. Itmust notbe forgotten, sometimes I forget, that all is a question ofvoices.IsaywhatIamtoldtosay,inthehopethatsomedaytheywillwearyoftalkingatme.ThetroubleisIsayitwrong,havingnoear,nohead,nomemory.NowIseemtohearthemsayitisWorm’svoicebeginning,Ipassonthenews,forwhat it isworth.DotheybelieveIbelieveit isIwhoamspeaking?That’stheirstoo.TomakemebelieveIhaveanegoallmyown,andcanspeakofit,astheyoftheirs.Anothertraptosnapmeupamongtheliving.It’showtofallintoittheycan’thaveexplainedtomesufficiently.They’llnevergetthebetterofmystupidity.Whydotheyspeaktomethus?Isitpossiblecertainthingschangeontheirpassagethroughme,inawaytheycan’tprevent?DotheybelieveIbelieveitisIwhoamaskingthesequestions?That’stheirstoo,alittledistortedperhaps.Idon’tsayit’snottherightmethod.Idon’tsaytheywon’tcatchmeintheend.Iwish theywould, tobe thrownaway. It’s thishunt that is tiring, thisunendingbeingatbay.Images,theyimaginethatbypilingontheimagesthey’llenticemein the end. Like the mother who whistles to prevent baby’s bladder frombursting,there’sanother.They,yes,nowthey’reallinthesamegalley.Wormtoplay,hislead,Iwishhimahappytime.TothinkIthoughthewasagainstwhattheyweretryingtodowithme!TothinkIsawinhim,ifnotme,asteptowardsme!Togetmetobehe,theanti-Mahood,andthentosay,ButwhatamIdoingbutliving,inakindofway,theonlypossibleway,that’sthecombination.OrbytheabsurdprovetomethatIam,theabsurdofnotbeingable.Unfortunatelyitisnohelpmybeingforewarned,Ineverremainsoforlong.InanycaseIwishhimevery success, in his courageous undertaking. And I am even prepared tocollaboratewithhim,aswithMahoodandCo.,tothebestofmyability,beingunabletodootherwise,andknowingmyability.Worm,tosayhedoesnotknowwhat he is,where he is,what is happening, is to underestimate him.What hedoes not know is that there is anything to know.His senses tell him nothing,nothingabouthimself,nothingabouttherest,andthisdistinctionisbeyondhim.Feelingnothing,knowingnothing,heexistsnevertheless,butnotforhimself,forothers,othersconceivehimandsay,Wormis,sinceweconceivehim,asiftherecouldbenobeingbutbeingconceived,ifonlybythebeer.Others.Onealone,

thenothers.Onealoneturnedtowardstheall-impotent,all-nescient,thathauntshim, thenothers.Towards himwhomhewould nourish, he the famishedone,andwho,havingnothinghuman,hasnothingelse,hasnothing,isnothing.Comeintotheworldunborn,abidingthereunliving,withnohopeofdeath,epicentreofjoys, of griefs, of calm. Who seems the truest possession, because the mostunchanging.Theoneoutsideoflifewealwayswereintheend,allourlongvainlifelong.Whoisnotsparedbythemadneedtospeak,tothink,toknowwhereone is, where one was, during the wild dream, up above, under the skies,venturingforthatnight.Theoneignorantofhimselfandsilent, ignorantofhissilenceandsilent,whocouldnotbeandgaveuptrying.Whocrouchesintheirmidstwhoseethemselvesinhimandintheireyesstareshisunchangingstare.Thanks for these first notions. And it’s not all. He who seeks his truecountenance,lethimbeofgoodcheer,he’llfindit,convulsedwithanguish,theeyesoutonstalks.Hewholongs tohave lived,whilehewasalive, lethimbereassured, lifewill tellhimhow.That’sallverycomforting.Worm,beWorm,you’llsee,it’simpossible,whatavelvetglove,alittlewornattheknuckleswithallthehardhitting.Bah,let’sturntheblackeye.Andthestarchingbeginatlast,ofthisoldcloutsopatientlypawedinvain,aslimpanddroopingstillasthefirstday.Butitissolelyaquestionofvoices,nootherimageisappropriate.Letitgothroughme at last, the right one, the last one, hiswho has none, by his ownconfession.Do they think they’ll lullme,with all this hemming and hawing?What can it matter tome, that I succeed or fail? The undertaking is none ofmine,iftheywantmetosucceedI’llfail,andviceversa,soasnottoberidofmytormentors.IsthereasinglewordofmineinallIsay?No,Ihavenovoice,inthismatterIhavenone.That’soneofthereasonswhyIconfusedmyselfwithWorm.ButIhavenoreasonseither,noreason,I’mlikeWorm,withoutvoiceorreason,I’mWorm,no,ifIwereWormIwouldn’tknowit,Iwouldn’tsayit,Iwouldn’t say anything, I’d beWorm. But I don’t say anything, I don’t knowanything, these voices are not mine, nor these thoughts, but the voices andthoughtsof thedevilswhobesetme.WhomakemesaythatIcan’tbeWorm,the inexpugnable.Whomakeme say that I am he perhaps, as they are.Whomakeme say that since I can’t be he I must be he. That since I couldn’t beMahood,as Imighthavebeen, ImustbeWorm,as I cannotbe.But is it stilltheywhosaythatwhenIhavefailedtobeWormI’llbeMahood,automatically,ontherebound?Asif,andalittlesilence,asifIwerebigenoughnowtotakeahint andunderstand, certain things, but they’rewrong, I need explanations, ofeverything,andeventhen,Idon’tunderstand,that’showI’llsickentheminthe

end,bymystupidity,sotheysay,tolullme,tomakemethinkI’mstupiderthanIam.AndisitstilltheywhosaythatwhenIsurprisethemallandamWormatlast,thenatlastI’llbeMahood,WormprovingtobeMahoodthemomentoneishe?Ahiftheycouldonlybegin,anddowhattheywantwithme,andsucceedatlast,indoingwhattheywantwithme,I’mreadytobewhatevertheywant,I’mtiredofbeingmatter,matter,pawedandpummelledendlessly invain.Orgiveme up and leaveme lying in a heap, in such a heap that nonewould everbefoundagaintotryandfashionit.Buttheyarenotofthesamemind,theyareallofthesamekidneyandyettheydon’tknowwhattheywanttodowithme,theydon’tknowwhereIam,orwhatI’mlike,I’mlikedust,theywanttomakeamanoutofdust.Listentothem,losingheart!That’stolullme,tillI imagineIhearmyselfsaying,myself at last, tomyself at last, that it can’t be they, speakingthus,thatitcanonlybeI,speakingthus.AhifIcouldonlyfindavoiceofmyown,inallthisbabble,itwouldbetheendoftheirtroubles,andofmine.That’swhytherearealltheselittlesilences,totryandmakemebreakthem.TheythinkIcan’tbearsilence,thatsomeday,somehow,myhorrorofsilencewillforcemeto break it. That’s why they are always leaving off, to try and drive me toextremities. But they dare not be silent for long, the whole fabricationmightcollapse.It’strueIdreadthesegulfstheyallbendover,strainingtheirearsforthe murmur of a man. It isn’t silence, it’s pitfalls, into which nothing wouldpleasemebetter thantofall,with the littlecry thatmightbe takenforhuman,like awoundedwistiti, the first and last, and vanish for good and all, havingsqueaked.Well,iftheyeversucceedingettingmetogiveavoicetoWorm,inamoment of euphory, perhaps I’ll succeed in making it mine, in a moment ofconfusion.Therewehavethestake.Buttheywon’t.DidtheyevergetMahoodtospeak?Itseemstomenot.IthinkMurphyspokenowandthen,theotherstooperhaps, I don’t remember, but it was clumsily done, you could see theventriloquist. And now I feel it’s about to begin. They must consider mesufficientlystupefied,withalltheirballsaboutbeingandexisting.Yes,nowthatI’ve forgottenwhoWorm is,where he is, what he’s like, I’ll begin to be he.Anything rather than these college quips.Quick, a place.With noway in, noway out, a safe place. Not like Eden. And Worm inside. Feeling nothing,knowingnothing,capableofnothing,wantingnothing.Untiltheinstanthehearsthesoundthatwillneverstop.Thenit’stheend,Wormnolongeris.Weknowit,butwedon’tsayit,wesayit’stheawakening,thebeginningofWorm,fornowwemustspeak,andspeakofWorm.It’snolongerhe,butletusproceedasifitwere still he, he at last, who hears, and trembles, and is delivered over, to

afflictionand thestruggle towithstand it, thestartingeye, the labouringmind.Yes, let us call that thing Worm, so as to exclaim, the sleight of handaccomplished,Ohlook,lifeagain,lifeeverywhereandalways,thelifethat’soneverytongue,theonlypossible!PoorWorm,whothoughthewasdifferent,thereheisinthemadhouseforlife.WhereamI?That’smyfirstquestion,afteranageoflistening.Fromit,whenithasn’tbeenanswered,I’llreboundtowardsothers,ofamorepersonalnature,muchlater.PerhapsI’llevenendup,beforeregainingmy coma, by thinking of myself as living, technically speaking. But let usproceedwithmethod.Ishalldomybest,asalways,sinceIcannotdootherwise.I shall submit, more corpse-obliging than ever. I shall transmit the words asreceived,by the ear, or roared througha trumpet into the arsehole, in all theirpurity,andinthesameorder,asfaraspossible.Thisinfinitesimallag,betweenarrival and departure, this trifling delay in evacuation, is all I have to worryabout.The truth aboutmewill boil forth at last, scalding, provided of coursetheydon’tstartstutteringagain.Ilisten.Enoughprocrastination.I’mWorm,thatistosayIamnolongerhe,sinceIhear.ButI’llforgetthatintheheatofmisery,I’llforgetIamnolongerWorm,butakindoftenth-rateToussaintL’Ouverture,that’swhat they’re countingon.Worm then I catch this sound thatwill neverstop, monotonous beyond words and yet not altogether devoid of a certainvariety. At the end of I know not what eternity, they don’t say, this hassufficiently exasperated my intelligence for it to grasp that the nuisance is avoiceandthattherealmofnature,inwhichIflattermyselfIhaveafootalready,hasothernoisestoofferwhichareevenmoreunpleasantandmaybereliedontomake themselves heard before long. Don’t tell me after that I had nopredispositionsforman’sestate.Whatawearywaysincethatfirstdisaster,whatnerves torn from the heart of insentience,with the appertaining terror and thecerebellumonfire.Ittookhimalongtimetoadapthimselftothisexcoriation.To realise pooh it’s nothing. Amere bagatelle. The common lot. A harmlessjoke.Thatwillnotlastforever.FormetogatherwhileImay.Theymentionedroses. I’ll smell them before I’m finished. Then they’ll put the accent on thethorns.Whatprodigiousvariety!Thethornsthey’llhavetocomeandstickintome, as into their unfortunate Jesus.No, I need nobody, they’ll start sproutingundermyarse,unaided,somedayIfeelmyselfsoaringabovemycondition.Abillybowlofthornsandtheairperfume-laden.Butnotsofast.Istillleavemuchtobedesired,Ihavenotechnique,none.Forexample,incaseyoudon’tbelieveme, I don’t yet know how to move, either locally, in relation to myself, orbodily,inrelationtotherestoftheshit.Idon’tknowhowtowantto,Iwantto

in vain.What doesn’t come to me fromme has come to the wrong address.Similarlymyunderstandingisnotyetsufficientlywell-oiledtofunctionwithoutthepressureofsomecriticalcircumstance,suchasaviolentpainfeltforthefirsttime.Somenice point in semantics, for example, of a nature to accelerate themarchofthehours,couldnotretainmyattention.Forothersthetime-abolishingjoysofimpersonalanddisinterestedspeculation.Ionlythink,ifthatisthenameforthisvertiginouspanicasofhornetssmokedoutoftheirnest,onceacertaindegreeofterrorhasbeenexceeded.DoesthismeanIamlessexposedtodoingso,bythegraceofinurement?Toarguesowouldbetounderestimatetheextentof the repertory in which I am plunged and which, it appears, is nothingcompared towhat is in store forme at the conclusion of the novitiate. Theselights gleaming lowafar, then rearingup in a blaze and sweepingdownuponme,blinding,todevourme,aremerelyoneexample.Myfamiliaritywiththemavails me nothing, they invariably give me to reflect. Each time, at the lastmoment,justasIbegintoscorch,theygoout,smokingandhissing,andyeteachtimemyphlegmisshattered.Andinmyhead,whichIambeginningtolocatetomy satisfaction, above and a little to the right, the sparks spirt and dashthemselvesoutagainstthewalls.AndsometimesIsaytomyselfIaminahead,it’s terrormakesme say it, and the longing to be in safety, surroundedon allsidesbymassivebone.AndIaddthatIamfoolishtoletmyselfbefrightenedbyanother’sthoughts,laceratingmyskywithharmlessfiresandassailingmewithnoisessignifyingnothing.Butonethingatatime.Andoftenallsleeps,aswhenI was really Worm, except this voice which has denatured me, which neverstops,butoftengrowsconfusedandfalters,asif itweregoingtoabandonme.But it ismerelyapassingweakness,unless it isdoneonpurpose, to teachmehope.Strange thing, ruinedas Iamandstillyoung in this abjection theyhavebrought me to, I sometimes seem to remember what I was like when I wasWorm,andnotyetdeliveredintotheirhands.That’stotemptmeintosaying,IamindeedWormafterall,andintothinkingthatafterallhemayhavebecomethethingthatIhavebecome.Butitdoesn’twork.Buttheywilldeviseanothermeans, less childish,ofgettingme toadmit,orpretend to admit, that I amhewhose name they call me by, and no other. Or they’ll wait, counting onmyweariness, as they pressme ever harder, to wipe him frommymemory whocannotbebroughttothepasstheyhavebroughtmeto,nottomentionyesterday,not tomention tomorrow.Andyet itseemstomeI remember,andshallneverforget,whatIwaslikewhenIwashe,beforeallbecameconfused.Butthatisofcourse impossible, sinceWorm could not knowwhat hewas like, or who he

was,that’showtheywantmetoreason.Anditseemstometoo,whichisevenmoredeplorable,thatIcouldbecomeWormagain,ifIwereleftinpeace.Thistransmission is really excellent. Iwonder if it’sgoing togetus somewhere. Ifonly they would stop talking for nothing, pending their stopping everything.Nothing?That’ssoonsaid.Itisnotformetojudge.WhatwouldIjudgewith?It’smoreprovocation.Theywantmetolosepatienceandrush,suddenlybesidemyself,totheirrescue.Howtransparentthatall is!SometimesIsaytomyself,theysaytome,Wormsays tome, thesubjectmatters little, thatmypurveyorsaremorethanone,fourorfive.Butit’smorelikelythesamefoulbruteall thetime,amusinghimselfpretendingtobeamany,varyinghisregister,histone,hisaccentandhisdrivel.Unless it comesnatural tohim.Abareand rustyhook Imight accept. But all these titbits! But there are long silences too, at longintervals, during which, hearing nothing, I say nothing. That is to say I hearmurmuring,ifIlistenhardenough,butit’snotforme,it’sforthemalone,theyareputtingtheirheadstogetheragain.Idon’thearwhattheysay,allIknowistheyarestillthere,theyhaven’tdone,withme.Theyhavemovedalittleaside.Secrets. Or if there is only one it is he alone, taking counsel with himself,mutteringandchewinghismoustache,gettingreadyforafreshflowofinanity.Tothinkofmeeavesdropping,me,whensilencefalls!Ahanicestatetheyhavemein.Butit’swiththehopethereisnooneleft.Butthisisnotthetimetospeakofthat.Good.Ofwhatisitthetimetospeak?OfWorm,atlast.Good.Wemustfirst,tobeginwith,gobacktohisbeginningsandthen,togoonwith,followhimpatiently through the various stages, taking care to show their fatalconcatenation,whichhavemadehimwhatIam.Thewholetobetossedoffwithbravura.Thennotes fromday today,until I collapse.And finally, towindupwith,songanddanceofthanksgivingbyvictim,tocelebratehisnativity.PleaseGodnothinggoeswrong.MahoodIcouldn’tdie.WormwillIevergetborn?It’sthesameproblem.Butperhapsnotthesamepersonageafterall.Thescythemanwilltell,it’sallonetohim.Butletusgobackasplanned,afterwardswe’llfallforward as projected. The reverse would be more like it. But not by much.Upstream,downstream,whatmatter, Ibeginby theear, that’s theway to talk.Beforethatitwasthenightoftime.Whereaseversince,whatradiance!NowatleastIknowwhereIam,asfarasmyoriginsgo,Imeanmyoriginsconsideredas a subject of conversation, that’s what counts. The moment one can say,Someoneisonhisway,alliswell.PerhapsIhavestillathousandyearstogo.Nomatter.He’sonhisway.Ibegintobefamiliarwiththepremises.IwonderifIcouldn’tsneakoutbythefundament,onemorning,withtheFrenchbreakfast.

No,Ican’tmove,notyet.Oneminuteinaskullandthenextinabelly,strange,andthenextnowhereinparticular.Perhapsit’sBotal’sForamen,whenallaboutme palpitates and labours. Bait, bait. Can it be I have a friend among them,shaking his head in sorrow and saying nothing or only, from time to time,Enough,enough.Onecanbebeforebeginning,theyhavesettheirheartsonthat.Theywantmerootsandall.Thisonward-rushingtimeisthesamewhichusedtosleep. And this silence they yelp against in vain and which one day will berestored, the same as in the past. Perhaps a little theworse forwear.Agreed,agreed, I who am on my way, words bellying out my sails, am also thatunthinkableancestorofwhomnothingcanbesaid.ButperhapsIshallspeakofhimsomeday,andoftheimpenetrableagewhenIwashe,somedaywhentheyfallsilent,convincedatlastIshallnevergetborn,havingfailedtobeconceived.Yes,perhapsIshallspeakofhim,foraninstant,liketheechothatmocks,beforebeingrestoredtohim,theonetheycouldnotpartmefrom.Andindeedtheyareweakeningalready,it’sperceptible.Butit’safeint, tohavemerejoicewithoutcause, after their fashion, and accept their terms, for the sake of peace at anyprice.But I candonothing, that iswhat they seem to forget at each instant. Ican’trejoiceandIcan’tgrieve,it’sinvaintheyexplainedtomehowit’sdone,Ineverunderstood.Andwhatterms?Idon’tknowwhatitistheywant.Isaywhatitis,butIdon’tknow.Iemitsounds,betterandbetteritseemstome.Ifthat’snotenough for them I can’t help it. If I speak of a head, referring tome, it’sbecauseIhearitbeingspokenof.Butwhykeeponsayingthesamething?Theyhopethingswillchangeoneday,it’snatural.Thatonedayonmywindpipe,orsomeothersectionof the conduit, anice little abscesswill form,with an ideainside, point of departure for a general infection. This would enable me tojubilatelikeanormalperson,knowingwhy.AndinnotimeI’dbeanetworkoffistulae,bubblingwiththeblessedpusofreason.AhifIwerefleshandblood,astheyarekindenough toposit, Iwouldn’t sayno, theremightbe something intheir little idea.Theysay I suffer like true thinking flesh,but I’msorry, I feelnothing.MahoodIfelta little,nowandthen,butwhatgooddidthatdothem?No,they’dbebetteradvisedtotrysomethingelse.Ifelt thecang,theflies,thesawdustundermystumps,thetarpaulinonmyskull,whentheywerementionedtome.Butcanthatbecalledalifewhichvanisheswhenthesubjectischanged?Idon’tseewhynot.But theymusthavedecreeditcan’t.Theyare toohard toplease,theyasktoomuch.Theywantmetohaveapainintheneck,irrefragableproofofanimation,whilelisteningtotalkoftheheavens.TheywantmetohaveamindwhereitisknownonceandforallthatIhaveapainintheneck,thatflies

aredevouringmeandthattheheavenscandonothingtohelp.Letthemscourgeme without ceasing and evermore, more and more lustily (in view of thehabituation factor), in the end I might begin to look as if I had grasped themeaningoflife.Theymighteventakeabreatherfromtimetotime,withoutmyceasingtohowl.Fortheywouldhavewarnedme,beforetheystarted,Youmusthowl,doyouhear,otherwiseitprovesnothing.Andwornoutat last,orfeeblewitholdage,andmycrieshavingceased forwantofnourishment, theycouldpronouncemedeadwitheveryappearanceofveracity.Andwithouteverhavinghad tomove Iwould have gainedmy rest and heard them say, striking softlytogethertheirdryoldhandsasiftoshakeoffthedust,He’llnevermoveagain.No,thatwouldbetoosimple.WemusthavetheheavensandGodknowswhatbesides, lights, luminaries, the three-monthly ray of hope and the gleam ofconsolation.But let us close this parenthesis and,with a light heart, open thenext.Thenoise.HowlongdidIremainapureear?Uptothemomentwhen itcouldgoonno longer,being toogood to last, compared towhatwascoming.Thesemillionsofdifferentsounds,alwaysthesame,recurringwithoutpause,areallonerequirestosproutahead,abudtobeginwith,finallyhuge,itsfunctionfirsttosilence,thentoextinguishwhentheeyejoinsin,andworsethantheevil,its treasure-house. But no lingering on this thin ice. The mechanism matterslittle,providedIsucceedinsaying,beforeIgodeaf,It’savoice,anditspeakstome.Ininquiring,boldly,ifitisnotmine.Indeciding,itdoesn’tmatterhow,thatI have none. In blowing darkly hot and cold, with concomitant identicalsensations. It’s a starting-point, he’s off, theydon’t seeme, but theyhearme,panting, riveted, theydon’tknowI’mriveted.Heknows theyarewords,he isnot sure they are not his, that’s how it begins, with such a start no one everlookedback,onedayhe’llmakethemhis,whenhethinksheisalone,farfromallmen, out of range of every voice, and come to the light of day they keeptellinghimof.Yes,Iknowtheyarewords, therewasa timeIdidn’t,as Istilldon’tknowif theyaremine.Theirhopesare therefore founded. In their shoesI’dbecontentwithmyknowingwhatIknow,I’ddemandnomoreofmethantoknowthatwhat Ihear isnot the innocentandnecessarysoundofdumbthingsconstrainedtoendure,buttheterror-strickenbabbleofthecondemnedtosilence.I would have pity, give me quittance, not harry me into appearing my owndestroyer.Buttheyaresevere,greedy,noless,perhapsmore, thanwhenIwasplayingMahood.Insteadofdrawingin theirhorns!It’s trueIhavenotspokenyet.Inatoneearandincontinentoutthroughthemouth,ortheotherear,that’spossibletoo.Nosenseinmultiplyingtheoccasionsoferror.Twoholesandme

in the middle, slightly choked. Or a single one, entrance and exit, where thewords swarm and jostle like ants, hasty, indifferent, bringing nothing, takingnothingaway,toolighttoleaveamark.IshallnotsayIagain,everagain,it’stoofarcical.Ishallputinitsplace,wheneverIhearit,thethirdperson,ifIthinkofit.Anythingtopleasethem.Itwillmakenodifference.WhereIamthereisnoonebutme,whoamnot.Somuchfor that.Words,hesaysheknows theyarewords.Buthowcanheknow,whohasneverheardanythingelse?True.Nottomention other things, many others, to which the abundance of matter hasunfortunately up to now prohibited the least allusion. For example, to beginwith,hisbreathing.Thereheisnowwithbreathinhisnostrils, itonlyremainsfor him to suffocate. The thorax rises and falls, the wear and tear are in fullspring, the rot spreads downwards, soon he’ll have legs, the possibility ofcrawling.Morelies,hedoesn’tbreatheyet,he’llneverbreathe.Thenwhatisthisfaintnoise,asofairstealthilystirred,recallingthebreathoflife,tothosewhomit corrodes? It’s a bad example.But these lights that go out hissing? Is it notmorelikelyagreatcrackleoflaughter,atthesightofhisterroranddistress?Toseehimfloodedwithlight,thensuddenlyplungedbackindarkness,muststrikethemasirresistiblyfunny.Buttheyhavebeentheresolongnow,oneveryside,theymayhavemadeahole in thewall,a littlehole, togluetheireyesto, turnabout. And these lights are perhaps those they shine upon him, from time totime, inorder toobserve theprogresshe ismaking.But thisquestionof lightsdeserves to be treated in a section apart, it is so intriguing, and at length,composedly,andsoitwillbe,atthefirstopportunity,whentimeisnotsoshort,and the mind more composed. Resolution number twenty-three. And in themeantime theconclusion tobedrawn?That theonlynoisesWormhashad tillnowarethoseofmouths?Correct.Notforgettingthegroaningoftheairbeneaththe burden. He’s coming, that’s the main thing. When on earth later on thestorms rage,drowningmomentarily the freeexpressionofopinion,he’ll knowwhatisafoot,thattheendoftheworldisnotathand.No,intheplacewhereheishecannotlearn,theheadcannotwork,heknowsnomorethanonthefirstday,hemerelyhears, andsuffers,uncomprehending, thatmustbepossible.Aheadhasgrownoutofhisear, thebetter toenragehim, thatmustbeit.Theheadisthere,gluedtotheear,andinitnothingbutrage,that’sallthatmatters,forthetime being. It’s a transformer in which sound is turned, without the help ofreason, to rage and terror, that’s all that is required, for the moment. Thecircumvolutionisationwillbeseen too later,when theygethimout.Why thenthe human voice, rather than a hyena’s howls or the clanging of a hammer?

Answer,sothattheshockmaynotbetoogreat,whenthewrithingsoftruelipsmeethisgaze.Betweenthemtheyfindarejoindertoeverything.Andhowtheyenjoy talking, they know there is no worse torment, for one not in theconversation.Theyarenumerous,all round,holdinghandsperhaps,anendlesschain,takingturnstotalk.Theywheel,injerks,sothatthevoicealwayscomesfrom the same quarter. But often they all speak at once, they all saysimultaneouslythesamethingexactly,butsoperfectlytogetherthatonewouldtakeitforasinglevoice,asinglemouth,ifonedidnotknowthatGodalonecanfill the roseof thewinds,withoutmovingfromhisplace.One,butnotWorm,whosaysnothing,knowsnothing,yet.Similarlyturnabouttheybenefitbythepeephole,thosewhocareto.Whileonespeaksanotherpeeps,theonenodoubtwhosevoiceisnextdueandwhoseremarksmaypossiblyhavereferencetowhathemay possibly have seen, this depending on whether what he has seen hasarousedhisinteresttotheextentofappearingworthyofremark,evenindirectly.Butwhathopehassustainedthem,allthetimetheyhavebeenthusemployed?Foritisdifficultnottosupposethemsustainedbysomeformofhope.Andwhatis thenatureof thechange theyareon the lookout for,gluingoneeye to thehole and closing the other. They have no pedagogic purpose in view, that’sdefinite.Thereisnoquestionofimpartingtohimanyinstructionwhatsoever,forthemoment. This catechist’s tongue, honeyed and perfidious, is the only onetheyknow.Lethimmove,tryandmove,that’salltheyask,forthemoment.Nomatterwherehegoes,beingatthecentre,hewillgotowardsthem.Soheisatthecentre, there isaclueof thehighest interest, itmatters little towhat.Theylook,toseeifhehasstirred.Heisnothingbutashapelessheap,withoutafacecapableofreflecting thenicetiesofa torment,but thedispositionofwhich, itsgreateror lesserdegreeofcrouchandhuddledness, isnodoubtexpressive, forspecialists, and enables them to assess the chances of its suddenly making abound,ordraggingitscoilsfaintlyaway,asifstrickentodeath.Somewhereintheheapaneye,awildequineeye,alwaysopen,theymusthaveaneye,theyseehim possessed of an eye. Nomatterwhere he goes hewill go towards them,towardstheirsongoftriumph,whentheyknowhehasmoved,ortowardstheirsuddensilence,whentheyknowhehasmoved,tomakehimthinkhedidwelltomove,ortowardsthevoicegrowingsofter,asifreceding,tomakehimthinkheis drawing away from them, but not yet far enough, whereas he is drawingnearer,nearerandnearer.No,hecan’tthinkanything,can’tjudgeofanything,butthekindoffleshhehasisgoodenough,willtryandgowherepeaceseemstobe,dropandliewhenitsuffersnomore,orless,orcangonofurther.Thenthe

voicewill begin again, lowat first, then louder, coming from thequarter theywant him to retreat from, to make him think he is pursued and struggle on,towardsthem.Inthiswaythey’llbringhimtothewall,andeventotheprecisepointwhere theyhavemadeotherholes throughwhich topass their armsandseizehim.Howphysicalthisallis!Andthen,unabletogoanyfurther,becauseoftheobstacle,andunabletogoanyfurtherinanycase,andnotneedingtogoanyfurtherforthemoment,becauseofthegreatsilencewhichhasfallen,hewilldrop,assuminghehadrisen,butevenareptilecandrop,afteralongflight,theexpressionmay be usedwithout impropriety.Hewill drop, itwill be his firstcorner, his first experience of the vertical support, the vertical shelter,reinforcing those of the ground. That must be something, while waiting foroblivion,tofeelapropandbuckler,notonlyforoneofone’ssixplanes,butfortwo,forthefirsttime.ButWormwillneverknowthisjoybutdarkly,beinglessthanabeast, beforehe is restored,moreor less, to that state inwhichhewasbeforethebeginningofhisprehistory.Thentheywilllayholdofhimandgatherhimintotheirmidst.Foriftheycouldmakeasmallholefortheeye,thenbiggeronesforthearms,theycanmakeonebiggerstillforthetransitofWorm,fromdarknesstolight.ButwhatisthegoodoftalkingaboutwhattheywilldoassoonasWormsetshimselfinmotion,soastogatherhimwithoutfailintotheirmidst,since he cannot set himself in motion, though he often desires to, if whenspeakingofhimonemayspeakofdesire,andonemaynot,oneshouldnot,butthereitis,thatisthewaytospeakofhim,thatisthewaytospeaktohim,asifhewerealive,asifhecouldunderstand,asifhecoulddesire,evenifitservesnopurpose, and it serves none.And it is a blessing for him he cannot stir, eventhoughhesuffersbecauseof it, for itwouldbe to signhis life-warrant, to stirfromwhereheis,insearchofalittlecalmandsomethingofthesilenceofold.Butperhapsonedayhewillstir,thedaywhenthelittleeffortoftheearlystages,infinitelyweak,will have become, by dint of repetition, a great effort, strongenoughtotearhimfromwherehelies.Orperhapsonedaytheywillleavehiminpeace,lettinggotheirhands,fillinguptheholesanddeparting,towardsmoreprofitableoccupations,inIndianfile.Foradecisionmustbereached,thescalesmust tilt, toonesideor theother.No,onecanspendone’s life thus,unable tolive,unabletobringtolife,anddieinvain,havingdonenothing,beennothing.It is strange theydonotgoand fetchhim inhisden, since they seem tohaveaccesstoit.Theydarenot,theairinthemidstofwhichheliesisnotforthem,andyet theywanthimtobreathe theirs.Theycouldsetadogonhimperhaps,withinstructionstodraghimout.Butnodogwouldsurvivethereeither,notfor

one second.With a long pole perhaps, with a hook at the end. But the placewherehelies isvast, that’s interesting,heisfar, toofarfor themtoreachhimevenwiththelongestpole.Thattinyblur,inthedepthsofthepit,ishe.Thereheisnowinapit,noavenuewillhavebeenleftunexplored.Theysaytheyseehim,thebluriswhattheysee,theysaytheblurishe,perhapsitis.Theysayhehearsthem, theydon’tknow,perhapshedoes,yes,hehears,nothingelse iscertain.Wormhears,thoughhearisnottheword,butitwilldo,itwillhavetodo.Theylookdownuponhimthen, according to the latestnews,he’llhave toclimb toreachthem.Bah, thelatestnews, thelatestnewsisnot thelast.Theslopesaregentlethatmeetwherehelies,theyflattenoutunderhim,itisnotameeting,itisnot a pit, that didn’t take long, soonwe’ll have himperched on an eminence.Theydon’tknowwhattosay,tobeabletobelieveinhim,whattoinvent,tobereassured,theyseenothing,theyseegrey,likestillsmoke,unbroken,wherehemightbe, ifhemustbesomewhere,wheretheyhavedecreedheis, intowhichthey launch their voices, one after another, in the hope of dislodging him,hearing him stir, seeing him loom within reach of their gaffs, hooks, barbs,grapnels, savedat last,homeat last.Andnow that’senoughabout them, theirusefulness is over, no, not yet, let them stay, theymay still serve, staywheretheyare,turninginaring,launchingtheirvoices,throughthehole,theremustbeaholeforthevoicestoo.Butisitthemhehears?Aretheyreallynecessarythathemay hear, they and kindred puppets? Enough concessions, to the spirit ofgeometry.He hears, that’s all about it, hewho is alone, andmute, lost in thesmoke,it isnotrealsmoke,there isnofire,nomatter,strangehell thathasnoheating,nodenizens,perhapsit’sparadise,perhapsit’sthelightofparadise,andthe solitude, and thisvoice thevoiceof theblest interceding invisible, for theliving,forthedead,allispossible.Itisn’ttheearth,that’sallthatcounts,itcan’tbe the earth, it can’t be a hole in the earth, inhabited byWorm alone, or byothersifyoulike,huddledinaheaplikehim,mute,immovable,andthisvoicethevoiceof thosewhomourn them,envythem,callon themandforget them,thatwouldaccountforitsincoherence,allispossible.Yes,somuchtheworse,he knows it is a voice, how is not known, nothing is known, he understandsnothingitsays,justalittle,almostnothing,it’sinexplicable,butit’snecessary,it’spreferable,thatheshouldunderstandjustalittle,almostnothing,likeadogthatalwaysgetsthesamefilthflungtoit,thesameorders,thesamethreats,thesamecajoleries.Thatsettlesthat,theendisinsight.Buttheeye,let’sleavehimhiseye too, it’s to seewith, thisgreatwildblackandwhite eye,moist, it’s toweepwith, it’s topractisewith,beforehegoes toKillarney.Whatdoeshedo

withit,hedoesnothingwithit, theeyestaysopen,it’saneyewithoutlids,noneedforlidshere,wherenothinghappens,orsolittle,ifhecouldblinkhemightmisstheoddsight,ifhecouldcloseit,thekindheis,he’dneveropenitagain.Tears gush from it practically without ceasing, why is not known, nothing isknown, whether it’s with rage, or whether it’s with grief, the fact is there,perhapsit’sthevoicethatmakesitweep,withrage,orsomeotherpassion,orathavingtosee,fromtimetotime,somesightorother,perhapsthat’sit,perhapshe weeps in order not to see, though it seems difficult to credit himwith aninitiativeof thiscomplexity.The rascal,he’sgettinghumanised,he’sgoing toloseifhedoesn’twatchout,ifhedoesn’ttakecare,andwithwhatcouldhetakecare,withwhatcouldheformthefaintestconceptionof theconditiontheyaredecoyinghiminto,with theirears, theireyes, their tearsandabrainpanwhereanythingmayhappen.That’shisstrength,hisonlystrength,thatheunderstandsnothing,can’ttakethought,doesn’tknowwhattheywant,doesn’tknowtheyarethere,feelsnothing,ahbutjustamoment,hefeels,hesuffers,thenoisemakeshim suffer, and he knows, he knows it’s a voice, and he understands, a fewexpressionshereandthere,afewintonations,ahit looksbad,bad,no,perhapsnot, for it’s they describe him thus,without knowing, thus because they needhim thus, perhaps he hears nothing, suffers nothing, and this eye, moremereimagination.Hehears,true,thoughit’stheyagainwhosayit,but thiscan’tbedenied, this isbetternotdenied.Wormhears, that’sallcanbesaidforcertain,whereastherewasatimehedidn’t,thesameWorm,accordingtothem,hehasthereforechanged, that’sgrave,gravid,whoknows towhat lengthshemaybecarried,no,hecanbe reliedon.Theeye too,ofcourse, is there toputhim toflight, make him take fright, badly enough to break his bonds, they call thatbonds,theywanttodeliverhim,ahmotherofGod,thethingsonehastolistento,perhapsit’stearsofmirth.Well,nomatter,let’sdriveonnowtotheendofthe joke,wemustbenearly there,andseewhat theyhave toofferhim, in theway of bugaboos.Who,we?Don’t all speak at once, there’s no sense in thateither.Allwill come right, lateron in the evening, everyonegoneand silencerestored.Inthemeantimenosenseinbickeringaboutpronounsandotherpartsofblather.Thesubjectdoesn’tmatter,thereisnone.Wormbeinginthesingular,as it turned out, they are in the plural, to avoid confusion, confusion is betteravoided,pendingthegreatconfounding.Perhapsthereisonlyoneofthem,onewoulddothetrickjustaswell,buthemightgetmixedupwithhisvictim,thatwouldbeabominable,downrightmasturbation.We’regettingon.Nothingmuchtheninthewayofsightsforsoreeyes.Butwhocanbesurewhohasnotbeen

there, has not lived there, they call that living, for them the spark is present,readytoburstintoflame,allitneedsispreachingon,tobecomealivingtorch,screams included. Then they may go silent, without having to fear anembarrassingsilence,whenstepsareheardongravesas thesaying is,genuinehell.Decidedlythiseyeishardofhearing.Noisestravel,traversewalls,butmaythe same be said of appearances? By no means, generally speaking. But thepresentcaseisratherspecial.Butwhatappearances,itisalwayswelltotryandfindoutwhatoneistalkingabout,evenattheriskofbeingdeceived.Thisgreytobeginwith,meant tobedepressingnodoubt.Andyet there isyellow in it,pink too apparently, it’s a nice grey, of the kind recommended as goingwitheverything,urinousandwarm.Inittheeyecansee,otherwisewhytheeye,butdimly, that’s right, no superfluous particulars, later to be controverted.Amanwouldwonderwherehiskingdomended,hiseyestrivetopenetratethegloom,andhecraveforastick,anarm,fingersapttograspandthenrelease,attherightmoment,astone,stones,orfor thepower toutteracryandwait,counting theseconds,forittocomebacktohim,andsuffer,certainly,athavingneithervoicenor othermissile, nor limbs submissive to him, bending and unbending at thewordofcommand,andperhapsevenregretbeingaman,undersuchconditions,that is to say a head abandoned to its ancient solitary resources. But Wormsuffersonlyfromthenoisewhichpreventshimfrombeingwhathewasbefore,admire thenuance.If it’s thesameWorm,and theyhaveset theirheartson it.Andifitisnotitmakesnodifference,hesuffersashehasalwayssuffered,fromthisnoisethatpreventsnothing,thatmustbefeasible.Inanycasethisgreycanhardly be said to add to hismisery, brightnesswould be better suited for thatpurpose,sincehecannotclosehiseye.Hecannotavertiteither,norlowerit,norliftitup,itremainstrainedonthesametinyfield,astrangerforevertotheboonsand 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 howWorm could stay, and it is also hard to see howhe could go.But impossiblesituations cannot be prolonged, unduly, the fact is well known, either theydisperse,orelsetheyturnouttobepossibleafterall,it’sonlytobeexpected,nottomentionotherpossibilities.Let there thenbe light, itwillnotnecessarilybedisastrous.Orlettherebenone,we’llmanagewithoutit.Buttheselights,intheplural,whichrearaloft,swell,sweepdownandgoouthissing,remindingoneofthenaja,perhapsthemomenthascometothrowthemintothebalanceandhavedonewiththistediousequipoise,atlast.No,themomenthasnotyetcome,todothat.Ha.Noneofyourhopinghere,thatwouldspoileverything.Letothershope

forhim,outside, in thecool, in the light, if theyhaveawish to,or if theyareobliged to, or if they are paid to, yes, they must be paid to hope, they hopenothing,theyhopethingswillcontinueastheyare,it’sasoftjob,theirthoughtswanderastheycallonJude,it’sprayingtheyare,prayingforWorm,prayingtoWorm, tohavepity, pityon them,pityonWorm, they call that pity,mercifulGod,thethingsonehastoputupwith,fortunatelyitallmeansnothingtohim.Currishobscurity,tothykennel,hell-hound!Grey.Whatelse?Calm,calm,theremustbesomethingelse,togowiththisgrey,whichgoeswitheverything.Theremustbesomethingofeverythinghere,asineveryworld,alittleofeverything.Mighty little, it seems. Beside the point in any case.What balls is going onbeforethisimpotentcrystalline,that’sallthatneedstobeimagined.Aface,howencouragingthatwouldbe,ifitcouldbeaface,everynowandthen,alwaysthesame,methodically varying its expressions, doggedly demonstrating all a trueface can do, without ever ceasing to be recognisable as such, passing fromunmixedjoytothesullenfixityofmarble,viathemostcharacteristicshadesofdisenchantment,howpleasantthatwouldbe.WorthtenofSaintAnthony’spig’sarse.Passingbyattherightdistance,therightlevel,sayonceamonth,that’snotexorbitant, full face and profile, like criminals. It might even pause, open itsmouth,raiseitseyebrows,blessitssoul,stutter,mutter,howl,groanandfinallyshutup, the chaps clenched to crackingpoint, or fallen, to let the dribble out.Thatwouldbenice.Apresenceatlast.Avisitor,faithful,withhisvisiting-day,hisvisiting-hour,neverstayingtoolong,itwouldbewearisome,ortoolittle,itwould not be enough, but just the necessary time for hope to be born, grow,languishanddie,sayfiveminutes.Andevenshouldthenotionoftimedawnonhisdarkness,at thispunctual imageof thecountenanceeverlasting,whocouldblamehim?Involvingverynaturallythatofspace,theyhavetakentogoinghandin hand, in certain quarters, it’s safer.And the gamewould bewon, lost andwon,he’dbesomehowsuddenlyamongus,amongtherendezvous,andpeoplesaying,LookatoldWorm,waitingforhissweetheart,andtheflowers, lookatthe flowers, you’d think hewas asleep, you know oldWorm,waiting for hislove,andthedaisies,lookatthedaisies,you’dthinkhewasdead.Thatwouldbeworthseeing.Fortunatelyit’salladream.Forherethereisnoface,noranythingresemblingone,nothingtoreflectthejoyoflivingandsuccedanea,nothingforitbuttotrysomethingelse.Somesimplething,abox,apieceofwood,tocometorest before him for an instant, once a year, once every two years, a ball,revolvingoneknowsnothowaboutoneknowsnotwhat,abouthim,everytwoyears, every three years, frequency unimportant in the early stages, without

stopping, it needn’t stop, that would be better than nothing, he’d hear itapproaching,hearitreceding,itwouldbeanevent,hemightlearntocount,theminutes,thehours,tofret,bebrave,havepatience,losepatience,turnhishead,rollhiseye,abigstone,andfaithful,thatwouldbebetterthannothing,pendingtheheartsofflesh.Andevenshouldhisstartoff,hisheartthatis,onitswaltz,inhisear,tralatralaypompom,again,tralatralaypompom,remiredobangbang,who could reprehend him?Unfortunatelywemust stick to the facts, forwhatelseisthere,tostickto,toclingto,whenallfounders,butthefacts,whenthereare any, still floating,within reach of the heart, happy expression that, of theheartcryingout,Thefactsarethere, thefactsarethere,andthenmorecalmly,when thedanger ispast, the continuation, namely, in the case before us,Herethereisnowood,noranystone,orifthereis,thefactsarethere,it’sasiftherewasn’t, the facts are there, no vegetables, no minerals, onlyWorm, kingdomunknown,Wormisthere,asitwere,asitwere.Butnottoofast,it’stoosoon,toreturn, towhere I am, empty-handed, in triumph, towhere I’mwaiting, calm,passablycalm,knowing,thinkingIknow,thatnothinghasbefallenme,nothingwillbefallme,nothinggood,nothingbad,nothingtobethedeathofme,nothingtobe the lifeofme, itwouldbepremature. I seeme, I seemyplace, there isnothingtoshowit,nothingtodistinguishit, fromall theotherplaces, theyaremine,allmine,ifIwish,Iwishnonebutmine,thereisnothingtomarkit,Iamtheresolittle,Iseeit,Ifeelitroundme,itenfoldsme,itcoversme,ifonlythisvoicewouldstop,forasecond,itwouldseemlongtome,asecondofsilence.I’dlisten,I’dknowifitwasgoingtostartagain,orifitwasstilledforever,whatwouldIknowitwith,I’dknow.AndI’dkeeponlistening,totryandadvanceintheir good graces, keep my place in their favour, and be ready, in case theyjudgedfittotakemeinhandagain,orI’dstop,stoplistening,isitpossiblethatonedayIshallstoplistening,withouthavingtofeartheworst,namely, Idon’tknow,whatcanbeworsethanthis,awoman’svoiceperhaps,Ihadn’tthoughtofthat,theymightengageasoprano.Butletusleavethesedreamsandtryagain.IfonlyIknewwhattheywant,theywantmetobeWorm,butIwas,Iwas,what’swrong,Iwas,butill,itmustbethat,itcanonlybethat,whatelsecanitbe,butthat,Ididn’treportinthelight,thelightofday,intheirmidst,tohearthemsay,Didn’twetellyouyouwerealiveandkicking?Ihaveendured,thatmustbeit,Ishouldn’thaveendured,butIfeelnothing,yes,yes,thisvoice,Ihaveenduredit,Ididn’tflyfromit,Ishouldhavefled,Wormshouldhavefled,butwhere,how,he’s riveted, Worm should have dragged himself away, no matter where,towards them, towards theazure,buthowcouldhe,hecan’tstir, itneedn’tbe

bonds,therearenobondshere,it’sasifhewererooted,that’sbondsifyoulike,theearthwouldhavetoquake,itisn’tearth,onedoesn’tknowwhatitis,it’slikesargasso,no, it’s likemolasses,no,nomatter,aneruptioniswhat’sneeded, tospewhimintothelight.Butwhatcalm,apartfromthediscourse,notabreath,it’ssuspicious,thecalmthatprecedeslife,nono,notallthistime,it’slikeslime,paradise, itwould be paradise, but for this noise, it’s life trying to get in, no,tryingtogethimout,orlittlebubblesburstingallaround,no,there’snoairhere,air is tomakeyouchoke, light is tocloseyoureyes, that’swherehemustgo,whereit’sneverdark,buthereit’sneverdarkeither,yes,hereit’sdark,it’stheywhomakethisgrey,withtheirlamps.Whentheygo,whentheygosilent,itwillbedark,notasound,notaglimmer,butthey’llnevergo,yes,they’llgo,they’llgo silent perhaps and go, one day, one evening, slowly, sadly, in Indian file,castinglongshadows,towardstheirmaster,whowillpunishthem,orwhowillsparethem,whatelseisthere,upabove,forthosewholose,punishment,pardon,sotheysay.Whathaveyoudonewithyourmaterial?Wehaveleftitbehind.Butcommandedtosaywhetheryesornotheyfilleduptheholes,haveyoufilleduptheholesyesorno,theywillsayyesandno,orsomeyes,othersno,atthesametime,notknowingwhatanswerthemasterwants, tohisquestion.Butbotharedefendable,bothyesandno,fortheyfilleduptheholes,ifyoulike,andifyoudon’tliketheydidn’t,fortheydidn’tknowwhattodo,ondeparting,whethertofilluptheholesor,onthecontrary,leavethemgapingwide.Sotheyfixedtheirlampsintheholes,theirlonglamps,topreventthemfromclosingofthemselves,it’slikepotter’sclay,theirpowerfullamps,litandtrainedonthewithin,tomakehimthinktheyarestillthere,notwithstandingthesilence,ortomakehimthinkthegreyisnatural,ortomakehimgoonsuffering,forhedoesnotsufferfromthe noise alone, he suffers from the grey too, from the light, he must, it’spreferable,ortomakeitpossibleforthemtocomeback,ifthemastercommandsthem to,without his knowing they have gone, as if he could know, or for nootherreasonthantheirignoranceofwhattodo,whethertofilluptheholesorletthemfillupofthemselves,it’slikeshit,therewehaveitatlast,thereitisatlast,the rightword,onehasonly toseek, seek invain, tobesureof finding in theend, it’s a question of elimination. Enough now about holes. The greymeansnothing, the grey silence is not necessarily a mere lull, to be got throughsomehow,itmaybefinal,oritmaynot.Butthelampsunattendedwillnotburnonforever,onthecontrary,theywillgoout,littlebylittle,withoutattendantstochargethemanew,andgosilent,intheend.Thenitwillbeblack.Butitiswiththeblackaswiththegrey,theblackprovesnothingeither,astothenatureofthe

silencewhichitinspissates(asitwere).Fortheymaycomeback,longafterthelightsarespent,havingpleadedforyearsinvainbeforethemasterandfailedtoconvincehimthereisnothingtobedone,withWorm,forWorm.Thenallwillstartoveragain,obviously.Soitwillneverbeknown,Wormwillneverknow,let the silencebeblack, or let it begrey, it canneverbeknown, as long as itlasts,whether it is final,orwhether it isamere lull, andwhata lull,whenhemustlisten,strainhisearsforthemurmursofoldensilences,holdhimselfreadyfor the next instalment, under pain of supplementary thunderbolts. ButWormmust not be confused with another. Though this has no importance, as ithappens.Forhewhohasoncehadtolistenwilllistenalways,whetherheknowshewillneverhearanythingagain,orwhetherhedoesnot.Inotherwords,theylike other words, no doubt about it, silence once broken will never again bewhole.Istherethennohope?Goodgracious,no,heavens,whatanidea!Justafaintoneperhaps,butwhichwillnever serve.Butone forgets.And if there isonlyonehewilldepartallalone,towardshismaster,andhislongshadowwillfollowhim,acrossthedesert,it’sadesert,that’snews,Wormwillseethe lightinadesert,thelightofday,thedesertday,thedaytheycatchhim,it’sthesameaseverywhereelse,theysaynot,theysayit’spurer,clearer,fatlotofdifferencethatwillmake,ohitisnotnecessarilytheSahara,orGobi,thereareothers,it’stheozonethatmatters,inthebeginning,yesindeed,intheendtoo,itsterilises.Butthislivideye,whatuseisittohim?Toseethelight,theycallthatseeing,noobjection,sinceitcauseshimsuffering,theycallthatsuffering,theyknowhowtocausesuffering,themasterexplainedtothem,Dothis,dothat,you’llseehimsquirm,you’llhearhimweep.Heweeps,it’safact,ohnotaveryfirmone,tobemadethemostofquick.Asforthesquirming,nothingdoing.Butthereisalwaysthistobesaid,thingsareonlybeginning,thoughlongsincebegun,theywillnotloseheart,they’llrememberthemottoofWilliamtheSilentandkeepontalking,that’swhatthey’repaidfor,notforresults.Enoughaboutthem,theycanspeakof nothing else, all is theirs, but for them there would be nothing, not evenWorm,he’sanideatheyhave,awordtheyuse,whenspeakingofthem,enoughabout them.But this grey, this light, if he could escape from this light,whichmakeshimsuffer,isitnotobviousitwouldmakehimsuffermoreandmore,inwhateverdirectionhewent,sinceheisatthecentre,anddrivehimbackthere,afterfortyorfiftyvainexcursions?No,thatisnotobvious.Foritisobviousthelightwould lessenashewent towards it, theywould see to that, tomakehimthinkhewasontherightroadandsobringhimtothewall.Thentheblaze,thecaptureandthepaean.Aslongashesuffersthere’shope,eventhoughtheyneed

none,tomakehimsuffer.Buthowcantheyknowhesuffers?Dotheyseehim?They say theydo.But it’s impossible.Hear him?Certainlynot.Hemakesnonoise.A littlewith hiswhining perhaps. In any case they are easy, rightly orwrongly,intheirminds,hesuffers,andthankstothem.Ohnotyetsufficiently,but gently does it, an excess of severity at this stage might darken hisunderstandingforever.Anotherthing.Theproblemisdelicate.Thedullingeffectofhabit,howdotheydealwiththat?Theycancombatitofcourse,raisingthevoice, increasingthelight.Butsuppose, insteadofsuffering less,as timeflies,hecontinuestosufferasmuch,precisely,asthefirstday.Thatmustbepossible.Andbutsuppose,insteadofsufferinglessthanthefirstday,ornoless,hesuffersmore and more, as time flies, and the metamorphosis is accomplished, ofunchangingfutureintounchangeablepast.Eh?Anotherthing,butofadifferentorder.Theaffairisthorny.Isnotauniformsufferingpreferabletoonewhich,byits ups and downs, is liable at certain moments to encourage the view thatperhaps after all it is not eternal? That must depend on the object pursued.Namely?Alittlefitofimpatience,onthepartofthepatient.Thankyou.Thatistheimmediateobject.Afterwardstherewillbeothers.Afterwardshe’llbegivenlessonsinkeepingquiet.Butforthemomentlethimtossandturnatleast,rollon the ground, damn it all, since there’s no other remedy, anything at all, torelievethemonotony,damnitall,lookattheburntalive,theydon’thavetobetold, when not lashed to the stake, to rush about in every direction, withoutmethod,crackling, in search of a little cool, there are even thosewhose sang-froidissuchthattheythrowthemselvesoutofthewindow.Nooneaskshimtogo to those lengths. But simply to discover, without further assistance fromwithout,thealleviationsofflightfromself,that’sall,hewon’tgofar,heneedn’tgofar.Simplytofindwithinhimselfapalliativeforwhatheis,throughnofaultof his own. Simply to imitate the hussarwho gets up on a chair the better toadjust the plume of his busby, it’s the least hemight do.No one asks him tothink, simply to suffer, always in the sameway, without hope of diminution,withouthopeofdissolution,it’snomorecomplicatedthanthat.Noneedtothinkinorder todespair.Agreed thenonmonotony, it’smore stimulating.But howcanitbeensured?Nomatter,nomatterhow,theyaredoingthebest theycan,with themiserablemeans at their disposal, a voice, a little light, poor devils,that’swhatthey’repaidfor,theysay,Nosignofhardening,nosignofsoftening,impossibletosay,nomatter,it’sagoodaverage,wehaveonlytocontinue,onedayhe’llunderstand,onedayhe’llthrill,thelittlespasmwillcome,achangeintheeye,andcasthimupamongus.Tobeonthewatchandneversight,tolisten

forthemoanthatnevercomes,that’snotalifeworthlivingeither.Andyetit’stheirs.Heisthere,saysthemaster,somewhere,doasItellyou,bringhimbeforeme, he’s lacking tomy glory. But one last effort, onemore, that’s the spirit,that’stheway,eachtimeasifitwerethelast,theonlywaynottoloseground.Agreat gulpof stinking air and offwe go,we’ll be back in a second. Forward!That’s soon said. But where is forward? And why? The dirty pack of fakemaniacs,theyknowIdon’tknow,theyknowIforgetalltheysayasfastastheysayit.These littlepausesareapoor trick too.When theygosilent, sodoI.Asecondlater,I’masecondbehindthem,Irememberasecond,forthespaceofasecond,thatistosaylongenoughtoblurtitout,asreceived,whilereceivingthenext,whichisnoneofmybusinesseither.NotaninstantIcancallmyownandtheywantmetoknowwherenexttoturn.AhIknowwhatI’dknow,andwhereI’dturn,ifIhadaheadthatworked.LetthemtellmeagainwhatI’mdoing,iftheywantmetolookasifIweredoingit.Thistone,thesewords,tomakemethinktheycomefromme.Alwaysthesameolddodges,eversincetheytookitintotheirheadsthatmyexistenceisonlyaquestionoftime.IthinkImusthaveblackouts,wholesentenceslost,no,notwhole.PerhapsI’vemissedthekeywordto thewholebusiness. Iwouldn’thaveunderstood it,but Iwouldhavesaid it,that’s all that’s required, it would have spoken in my favour, next time theyjudgeme,wellwell,sotheyjudgemefromtimetotime,theyneglectnothing.PerhapsonedayI’llknow,say,what I’mguiltyof.Howmanyofusare therealtogether,finally?Andwhoisholdingforthatthemoment?Andtowhom?Andabout what? These are futile teasers. Let them put into mymouth at last thewordsthatwillsaveme,damnme,andnomoretalkaboutit,nomoretalkaboutanything.But this ismypunishment,mycrime ismypunishment, that’swhatthey judge me for, I expiate vilely, like a pig, dumb, uncomprehending,possessed of no utterance but theirs. They’ll clapme in a dungeon, I’m in adungeon,I’vealwaysbeeninadungeon,Iheareverything,everywordtheysay,it’s the only sound, as if Iwere speaking, tomyself, out loud, in the end youdon’tknowanymore,avoicethatneverstops,whereit’scomingfrom.Perhapsthereareothershere,withme, it’sdark,veryproperly, it isnotnecessarilyanoublietteforone,oroneother,perhapsIhaveacompanioninmisfortune,givento talking, or condemned to talk, you know, any old thing, out loud, withoutceasing, but I think not, what do I think not, that I have a companion inmisfortune, that’s it, that would surprise me, they loathe me, but not to thatextent,theysaythatwouldsurpriseme.Imustdozeofffromtimetotime,withopeneyes, andyetnothingchanges, ever.Gaps, therehave alwaysbeengaps,

it’s thevoicestopping, it’s thevoicefailingtocarry tome,whatcanitmatter,perhaps it’s important, the result is the same, one perhaps that doesn’t count,exceptionally.Theyshutmeuphere,nowthey’re tryingtogetmeout, toshutmeupsomewhereelse,ortoletmego,theyarecapableofputtingmeoutjusttoseewhat I’ddo.Standingwith theirbacks to thedoor, theirarmsfolded, theirlegs crossed, theywould observeme.Or all they didwas to findmehere, ontheirarrival,orlongafterwards.Theyarenotinterestedinme,onlyintheplace,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, andcomestoanend,itwillbebecausethewordshavebeensaid,thoseitbehovedtosay, no need to know which, no means of knowing which, they’ll be theresomewhere, intheheap, inthetorrent,notnecessarilythelast, theyhavetoberatifiedby theproper authority, that takes time,he’s far fromhere, theybringhimtheverbatimreportoftheproceedings,onceinaway,heknowsthewordsthatcount, it’shewhochosethem,inthemeantimethevoicecontinues,whilethe messenger goes towards the master, and while the master examines thereport, and while the messenger comes back with the verdict, the wordscontinue, the wrong words, until the order arrives, to stop everything or tocontinue everything, no, superfluous, everything will continue automatically,untiltheorderarrives,tostopeverything.Perhapstheyaresomewherethere,thewordsthatcount, inwhathas justbeensaid, thewords itbehovedtosay, theyneednotbemorethanafew.Theysaythey,speakingofthem,tomakemethinkitisIwhoamspeaking.OrIsaythey,speakingofGodknowswhat,tomakemethinkitisnotIwhoamspeaking.Orratherthereissilence,fromthemomentthemessengerdepartsuntilhereturnswithhisorders,namely,Continue.For thereare long silences from time to time, truces, and then I hear themwhispering,some perhapswhispering, It’s over, this timewe’ve hit themark, 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 away, if one can call that respite,when one waits to know one’s fate, saying, Perhaps it’s not that at all, andsaying,Wheredothesewordscomefromthatpouroutofmymouth,andwhatdotheymean,no,sayingnothing,forthewordsdon’tcarryanymore,ifonecancallthatwaiting,whenthere’snoreasonforit,andonelistens,thatstet,withoutreason,asonehasalwayslistened,becauseonedaylisteningbegan,becauseitcannotstop, that’snota reason, ifonecancall that respite.Butwhat’sall thisaboutnotbeingabletodie,live,beborn,thatmusthavesomebearing,allthisaboutstayingwhereyouare,dying,living,beingborn,unabletogoforwardor

back, not knowingwhere you came from, orwhere you are, orwhere you’regoing,orthatit’spossibletobeelsewhere,tobeotherwise,supposingnothing,askingyourselfnothing,youcan’t,you’rethere,youdon’tknowwho,youdon’tknowwhere, the thing stayswhere it is, nothing changes,within it, outside it,apparently, apparently. And there is nothing for it but to wait for the end,nothingbutfortheendtocome,andattheendallwillbethesame,attheendatlast perhaps all the same as before, as all that livelong time when there wasnothingforitbuttogettotheend,orflyfromit,orwaitforit,tremblingornot,resignedornot, thenuisanceofdoingover, andofbeing, same thing, foronewhocouldneverdo,neverbe.Ahifonlythisvoicecouldstop,thismeaninglessvoice which prevents you from being nothing, just barely prevents you frombeingnothingandnowhere, just enough to keep alight this little yellow flamefeebly darting from side to side, panting, as if straining to tear itself from itswick,itshouldneverhavebeenlit,oritshouldneverhavebeenfed,oritshouldhavebeenputout,putout,itshouldhavebeenletgoout.Regretting,that’swhathelpsyouon, that’swhatgetsyouon towards theendof theworld, regrettingwhatis,regrettingwhatwas,it’snotthesamething,yes,it’sthesame,youdon’tknow, what’s happening, what’s happened, perhaps it’s the same, the sameregrets, that’s what transports you, towards the end of regretting. But a littleanimationnowforpity’ssake,it’snowornever,alittlespirit,itwon’tproduceanything,notabudge,thatdoesn’tmatter,wearenottradesmen,andoneneverknows,doesone,no.PerhapsMahoodwillemerge fromhisurnandmakehisway towards Montmartre, on his belly, singing, I come, I come, my heart’sdelight.OrWorm,goodoldWorm,perhapshewon’tbeabletobearanymore,ofnotbeingable,ofnotbeingabletobearanymore,itwouldbeapitytomissthat.IfIweretheyI’dsettheratsonhim,water-rats,sewer-rats,they’rethebest,ohnottoomany,adozentoadozenandahalf,thatmighthelphimmakeuphismind, to get going, and what an introduction, to his future attributes. No, itwouldbe invain, a ratwouldn’t survive there, not one second.But let’s haveanothersquintathiseye,that’stheplacetolook.Alittlerawperhaps,thewhite,withall thepissing,there’sagleamatlast,onehesitatestosayofintelligence.Apart from that the same as ever. A trifle more prominent perhaps, moreparaphimoticallyglobose.Itseemstolisten.It’sweakening,that’sunavoidable,glazing,it’shightimetoofferitsomethingtobringitcleanoutofitssocket,intenyearsitwillbetoolate.Themistaketheymakeofcourseistospeakofhimas ifhe reallyexisted, ina specificplace,whereas thewhole thing isnomorethanaprojectforthemoment.Butletthemblunderontotheendoftheirfolly,

then they can go into the question again, taking care not to compromisethemselvesbytheuseofterms,ifnotofnotions,accessibletotheunderstanding.In thesamewaythecaseofMahoodhasbeeninsufficientlystudied.Onemayexperience the need of such creatures, assuming they are twain, and even thepresentiment of their possible reality, without all these blind and surlydisquisitions.A littlemore reflectionwouldhave shown them that thehour tospeak, far from having struck, might never strike. But they are compelled tospeak, it is forbidden them to stop. Why then not speak of something else,somethingtheexistenceofwhichseemsinacertainmeasurealreadyestablished,on the subject of which onemay chatter awaywithout blushing purple everythirty or forty thousandwords at having to employ such locutions andwhichmoreover,supremeguarantee,hascausedtheglibbesttonguestowagfromtimeimmemorial, it would be preferable. It’s the old story, they want to beentertained,whiledoingtheirdirtywork,no,notentertained,soothed,no,that’snot it either, solaced, no, even less, no matter, with the result they achievenothing,neitherwhattheywant,withoutknowingexactlywhat,northeobscureinfamytowhichtheyarecommitted,theoldstory.Youwouldn’tthinkitwasthesamegang as amoment ago, orwouldyou?What canyou expect, theydon’tknowwhotheyareeither,norwheretheyare,norwhatthey’redoing,norwhyeverythingisgoingsobadly,soabominablybadly,thatmustbeit.Sotheybuilduphypothesesthatcollapseontopofoneanother,it’shuman,alobstercouldn’tdoit.Ahanicemesswe’rein,thewholepackofus,isitpossiblewe’reallinthesameboat,no,we’reinanicemesseachoneinhisownpeculiarway.Imyselfhavebeenscandalouslybungled,theymustbebeginningtorealiseit,Ionwhomall 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, sssst,pissed on out of hand.Ah this blind voice, and thesemoments of heldbreathwhen all listen wildly, and the voice that begins to fumble again, withoutknowingwhatit’slookingfor,andagainthetinysilence,andthelisteningagain,forwhat, no one knows, a sign of life perhaps, thatmust be it, a sign of lifeescapingsomeone,andboundtobedeniedifitcame,that’sitsurely,ifonlyallthatcouldstop,there’dbepeace,no,toogoodtobebelieved,thelisteningwouldgo on, for the voice to begin again, for a sign of life, for someone to betrayhimself,orforsomethingelse,anything,whatelsecantherebebutsignsoflife,thefallofapin, thestirringofa leaf,or the littlecry thatfrogsgivewhenthescytheslicestheminhalf,orwhentheyarespiked,intheirpools,withaspear,onecouldmultiplytheexamples,itwouldevenbeanexcellentidea,butthereit

is,onecan’t.Perhapsitwouldbebettertobeblind,theblindhearbetter,fullofgeneral knowledge we are this evening, we have even piano-tuners up oursleeve,theystrikeAandhearG,twominuteslater,there’snothingtobeseeninanycase, this eye is anoversight.But this isn’tWorm speaking.True, so far,who denies it, it would be premature. Nor I, for that matter, andMahood isnotoriouslyaphonic.Butthequestionisnotthere,forthemoment,nooneknowswhereitis,butitisnotthere,forthetimebeing.Ahyes,there’sgreatfuntobehadfromaneye,itweepsfortheleastlittlething,ayes,ano,theyessesmakeitweep, thenoes too, theperhapsesparticularly,with the result that thegroundsfor these staggering pronouncements do not always receive the attention theydeserve.Mahoodtoo,ImeanWorm,no,Mahood,Mahoodtooisagreatweeper,incaseithasn’tbeenmentioned,hisbeardissoakingwiththemuck,it’squiteridiculous, especially as it doesn’t relieve him in the slightest, what could itpossibly relieve him of, the poor brute is as cold as a fish, incapable even ofcursinghiscreator,it’spurelymechanical.Butit’stimeMahoodwasforgotten,heshouldneverhavebeenmentioned.Nodoubt.Butisitpossibletoforgethim?Itistrueoneforgetseverything.AndyetitisgreatlytobefearedthatMahoodwill never let himself be completely resorbed.Worm yes,Worm will vanishutterly, as if he had never been,which indeed is probably the case, as if onecould ever vanish utterly without having been at some previous stage. That’ssoonsaid.ButMahoodtooforthatmatter.It’snotclear,tuttut,it’snotclearatall.Nomatter,Mahoodwillstaywherehewasput,stuckuptohisskullinhisvase, opposite the shambles, beseeching the passers-by, without a word, or agesture,oranyplayofhisfeatures,theydon’tplay,toperceivehimostensibly,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 tosink, sooneror later, thatmustbe it, suchnotionsmaybeentertained,withoutany process of thought. Imyself am exceptionally given to the tear, I shouldhavepreferredthiskeptdark,intheirpositionIshouldhaveomittedthisdetail,thetruthbeingIhavenoventatmydisposal,neithertheaforesaidnorthoselessnoble,howcanoneenjoygoodhealthundersuchconditions,andwhatisonetobelieve, that isnot thepoint, tobelieve thisor that, thepoint is toguess right,nothing more, they say, If it’s not white it’s very likely black, it must beadmitted the method lacks subtlety, in view of the intermediate shades allequallyworthyofachance.Thetimetheywasterepeatingthesamething,whentheymustknowpertinentlyitisnottherightone.Recriminationseasilyrebutted,iftheychosetotakethetrouble,andhadtheleisure,toreflectontheirinanity.

But how can you think and speak at the same time, how can you think aboutwhatyouhavesaid,maysay,are saying,andat thesame timegoonwith thelast-mentioned,you thinkabout anyold thing,you sayanyold thing,moreorless,moreorless,inadazeofbaselessunanswerableself-reproach,that’swhythey always repeat the same thing, the sameold litany, theone theyknowbyheart,totryandthinkofsomethingdifferent,ofhowtosaysomethingdifferentfromthesameoldthing,alwaysthesamewrongthingsaidalwayswrong,theycan find nothing, nothing else to say but the thing that prevents them fromfinding,they’ddobettertothinkofwhatthey’resaying,inorderatleasttovaryits presentation, that’s what matters, but how can you think and speak at thesame time, without a special gift, your thoughts wander, your words too, farapart,no,that’sanexaggeration,apart,betweenthemwouldbetheplacetobe,whereyousuffer,rejoice,atbeingbereftofspeech,bereftof thought,andfeelnothing,hearnothing,knownothing,saynothing,arenothing, thatwouldbeablessedplace to be,where you are. It’s a lucky thing they are there,meaninganywhere,tobeartheresponsibilityofthisstateofaffairs,withrespecttowhichifonedoesnotknowagreatdealoneknowsatleastthis,thatonewouldnotcaretohaveitonone’sconscience,tohaveitonone’sstomachisenough.Yes,I’maluckymantohavethem,thesevolubleshades,I’llbesorrywhentheygo,forIwon’thavethemalways,notatthisrate,they’llmakemebelieveI’vepipedupbeforethey’redonewithme.Themasterinanycase,wedon’tintend,listentothem hedging, we don’t intend, unless absolutely driven to it, to make themistakeofinquiringintohim,he’dturnouttobeamerehighofficial,we’dendupbyneedingGod,wehavelostallsenseofdecencyadmittedly,buttherearestillcertaindepthsweprefernottosinkto.Letuskeeptothefamilycircle,it’smoreintimate,weallknowoneanothernow,nosurprisestobefeared,thewillhas been opened, nothing for anybody.This eye, curious how this eye invitesinspection, demands sympathy, solicits attention, implores assistance, to dowhat,it’snotclear,tostopweeping,haveaquicklookround,goggleaninstantandcloseforever.It’sityouseeanditalone,it’sfromityousetouttolookforaface,toityoureturnhavingfoundnothing,nothingworthhaving,nothingbutakindofashensmear,perhapsit’s longgreyhair,hangingina tangleroundthemouth,greasywithancienttears,orthefringeofamantlespreadlikeaveil,orfingersopeningandclosingtotryandshutouttheworld,oralltogether,fingers,hairandrags,mingledinextricably.Suppositionsallequallyvain,it’senoughtoenounce them to regret having spoken, familiar torment, a different past, it’softentobewished,differentfromyours,whenyoufindoutwhat itwas.Heis

hairlessandnakedandhishands,laidflatonhiskneesonceandforall,areinnodanger of ever getting into mischief. And the face? Balls, all balls, I don’tbelieve in the eye either, there’s nothing here, nothing to see, nothing to seewith,mercifulcoincidence,whenyou thinkwhat itwouldbe, aworldwithoutspectator, andviceversa,brrr!No spectator then, andbetter still no spectacle,goodriddance.Ifthisnoisewouldstopthere’dbenothingmoretosay.Iwonderwhat the chat is about at the moment. Worm presumably, Mahood beingabandoned. And I await my turn. Yes indeed, I do not despair, all thingsconsidered, of drawing their attention to my case, some fine day. Not that itoffers the least interest, hey, somethingwrong there, not that it is particularlyinteresting, I’ll accept that, but it’smy turn, I too have the right to be shownimpossible.Thiswillneverend,there’snosenseinfoolingoneself,yesitwill,they’llcomeroundtoit,aftermeitwillbetheend,they’llgiveup,saying,It’sallabubble,we’vebeentoldalotoflies,he’sbeentoldalotoflies,whohe,themaster, by whom, no one knows, the everlasting third party, he’s the one toblame,forthisstateofaffairs,themaster’snottoblame,neitherarethey,neitheramI,leastofallI,wewerefoolishtoaccuseoneanother,themasterme,them,himself,theyme,themaster,themselves,Ithem,themaster,myself,weareallinnocent,enough.Innocentofwhat,nooneknows,ofwantingtoknow,wantingtobeable,ofallthisnoiseaboutnothing,ofthislongsinagainstthesilencethatenfoldsus,wewon’taskanymore,whatitcovers,thisinnocencewehavefallento,itcoverseverything,allfaults,allquestions,itputsanendtoquestions.Thenitwillbeover,thankstomeallwillbeover,andthey’lldepart,onebyone,orthey’ll drop, they’ll let themselves drop, where they stand, and never moveagain, thankstome,whocouldunderstandnothing,ofall theydeemed it theirdutytotellme,donothing,ofalltheydeemedittheirdutytotellmetodo,anduponusallthesilencewillfallagain,andsettle,likedustofsand,onthearena,after the massacres. Bewitching prospect if ever there was one, they arebeginningtocomeroundtomyopinion,afterall it’spossible Ihaveone, theymakemesay,Ifonlythis,ifonlythat,buttheideaistheirs,no,theideaisnottheirseither.AsfarasIpersonallyamconcernedthereiseverylikelihoodofmybeingincapableofeverdesiringordeploringanythingwhatsoever.Foritwouldseem difficult for someone, if I may so describe myself, to aspire towards asituation of which, notwithstanding the enthusiastic descriptions lavished onhim,hehasnottheremotestidea,ortodesirewithastraightfacethecessationofthatother,equallyunintelligible,assignedtohiminthebeginningandnevermodified.Thissilencetheyarealwaystalkingabout,fromwhichsupposedlyhe

came,towhichhewillreturnwhenhisactisover,hedoesn’tknowwhatitis,norwhathe ismeant todo, inorder todeserve it.That’s thebrightboyof theclass speaking now, he’s the one always called to the rescue when things gobadly,hetalksallthetimeofmeritandsituations,hehassavedmorethanone,ofsufferingtoo,heknowshowtostimulatetheflaggingspirit,stoptherot,withthesimpleuseofthismightywordalone,evenifhehastoadd,amomentlater,But what suffering, since he has always suffered, which rather damps therejoicings.Buthesoonmakesupforit,heputsalltorightsagain,invoking thecelebrated notions of quantity, habit-formation, wear and tear, and others toonumerous for him tomention, andwhich he is thus in a position, in the nextbelch,todeclareinapplicabletothecasebeforehim,forthereisnoendtohiswits.But,seeabove,have theynotalreadybentoverme tillblackandblue intheface,nay,havetheyeverdoneanythingelse,duringthepast–no,nodatesforpity’ssake,andanotherquestion,whatamIdoinginMahood’sstory,andinWorm’s,orratherwhataretheydoinginmine,therearesomeironsinthefiretobegoingonwith,letthemmelt.OhIknow,Iknow,attentionplease,thismaymeansomething,Iknow,there’snothingnewthere,it’sallpartofthesameoldirresistiblebaloney,namely,Butmydearman,come,bereasonable,look,thisisyou,lookatthisphotograph,andhere’syourfile,noconvictions,Iassureyou,come now, make an effort, at your age, to have no identity, it’s a scandal, Iassure you, look at this photograph, what, you see nothing, true for you, nomatter,here,lookatthisdeath’s-head,you’llsee,you’llbeallright,itwon’tlastlong,here,look,here’stherecord,insultstopolicemen,indecentexposure,sinsagainstholyghost,contemptofcourt, impertinence tosuperiors, impudence toinferiors,deviationsfromreason,withoutbattery,look,nobattery,it’snothing,you’llbeallright,you’llsee,Ibegyourpardon,doeshework,goodGodno,outofthequestion,look,here’sthemedicalreport,spasmodictabes,painlessulcers,I repeat, painless, all is painless, multiple softenings, manifold hardenings,insensitivetoblows,sightfailing,chronicgripes, lightdiet, shitwell tolerated,hearingfailing,heartirregular,sweet-tempered,smellfailing,heavysleeper,noerections,wouldyoulikesomemore,commissionintheterritorials,inoperable,untransportable, look,here’s theface,nono, theotherend, Iassureyou, it’sabargain, I beg your pardon, does he drink, goodGod yes, passionately, I begyourpardon, fatherandmother,bothdead, at sevenmonths interval,heat theconception,sheatthenativity,Iassureyou,youwon’tdobetter,atyourage,nohumanshape,thepityofit,look,here’sthephotograph,you’llsee,you’llbeallright,whatdoes it amount to,afterall,apainfulmoment,on thesurface, then

peace,underneath, it’s theonlyway,believeme, theonlywayout, Ibegyourpardon,haveInothingelse,whycertainly,certainly,justasecond,curiousyoushouldmentionit,Iwaswonderingmyself,justasecond,ifyouwerenotrather,justasecond,hereweare,thisonehere,butIwantedtobesure,what,youdon’tunderstand,neitherdoI,nomatter, it’sno time for levity,yes, Iwas right,nodoubtaboutitthistime,it’syouallover,look,here’sthephotograph,takealookatthat,dyingonhisfeet,you’dbetterhurry,it’sabargain,Iassureyou,andsoon,tillI’mtempted,no,alllies,theyknowitwell,Ineverunderstood,Ihaven’tstirred,allI’vesaid,saidI’vedone,saidI’vebeen,it’stheywhosaidit,I’vesaidnothing,Ihaven’tstirred, theydon’tunderstand, Ican’tstir, they thinkIdon’twantto,thattheirconditionsdon’tsuitme,thatthey’llhitonothers,intheend,tomyliking, thenI’llstir, I’llbe in thebag, that’showIsee it, I seenothing,theydon’tunderstand, I can’tgo to them, they’llhave tocomeandgetme, iftheywantme,Mahoodwon’tgetmeout,norWormeither,theysetgreatstoreonWorm,tocoaxmeout,hewassomethingnew,differentfromalltheothers,meanttobe,perhapshewas,tomethey’reallthesame,theydon’tunderstand,Ican’t stir, I’mall right here, I’dbe all right here, if they’d leaveme, let themcome and getme, if theywantme, they’ll find nothing, then they can depart,withaneasymind.Andifthereisonlyone,likeme,hecandepartwithoutfearofremorse,havingdoneallhecould,andevenmore,toachievetheimpossibleandsolosthislife,orstaywithmehere,hemightdothat,andbealikeforme,thatwouldbelovely,myfirstlike,thatwouldbeepoch-making,toknowIhadalike,acongener,hewouldn’thavetobelikeme,hecouldn’tbutbelikeme,heneedonlyrelax,hemightbelievewhathepleased,attheoutset,thathewasinhell,orthattheplacewascharming,hemightevenexclaim,I’llneverstiragain,beingused toannouncinghisdecisions,at the topofhisvoice, soas toget toknow them better, he might even add, to cover all risks, For the moment, itwouldbehislasthowler,heneedonlyrelax,he’ddisappear,he’dknownothingeither,therewe’dbethetwoofus,unbeknowntoourselves,unbeknowntoeachother,that’sadarlingdreamI’vebeenhaving,abrothofadream.Andit’snotover.Forherecomesanother,toseewhathashappenedtohispal,andgethimout,andbacktohisrightmind,andbacktohiskin,withaflowofthreatsandpromises,andtales like thisofwombsandcribs,diapersbepissedandthefirstlongtrousers,love’syoungdreamandlife’sold lech,bloodandtearsandskinandbonesand the tossing in thegrave, and so coaxhimout, as heme, that’sright,pidginbullskrit,andintheend,havinglivedhislife,no,before,butyou’vegotmymeaning,andthereweare the threeofus, it’scosier,perpetualdream,

youhavemerelytosleep,noteventhat, it’s like theold jingle.Adogcrawledintothekitchenandstoleacrustofbread,thencookupwithI’veforgottenwhatand walloped him till he was dead, second verse, Then all the dogs camecrawling anddug thedog a tombandwroteupon the tombstone fordogs andbitchestocome,thirdverse,asthefirst,fourth,asthesecond,fifth,asthethird,giveus time,giveus timeandwe’llbeamultitude, a thousand, ten thousand,there’snolackofroom,adeste,adeste,allyelivingbastards,you’llbeallright,you’llsee,you’llneverbebornagain,whatamIsaying,you’llneverhavebeenborn, andbringyourbrats,ourhellwillbeheaven to them,afterwhatyou’vedonetothem.Butcometothinkofitarewenotalreadyagoodlycompany,whatrighthaveItoflattermyselfI’mthefirst,firstintimeImeanofcourse,therewehaveafewmorequestions,pleaseGodtheydon’ttakethefancytoanswerthem.What can they be hatching anyhow, at this eleventh hour?Can it be they areresolvedatlasttoseizemebythehorns?Lookslikeit.Inthatcasetableauanyminute.Oyez,oyez,Iwaslikethem,beforebeinglikeme,ohtheswine,that’sone Iwon’t get over in a hurry, nomatter, nomatter, the charge is sounded,present arms, corpse, toyourguns, spermatozoon. I too,wearyofpleadinganincomprehensible cause, at six and eight the thousand flowers of rhetoric, letmyselfdropamongthecontumacious,niceimagethat,telescopingspace,itmustbethePulitzerPrize,theywanttoboremetosleep,atlongrangeforfearImightdefendmyself, theywant tocatchmealive, soas tobeable tokillme, thus Ishallhavelived,theythinkI’malive,whatabusiness,weretherebutacadaverit would smack of body-snatching, not in a womb either, the slut has yet tomenstruate capable ofwhelpingme, that should singularly narrow the field ofresearch, 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 takestime,nostonemustbeleftunturned,onemustn’tbeafraidofmakingahowler,howcanoneknowitisonebeforeit’smade,andoneitmostcertainlyis,nowthat 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 there, for theexcellent reason that counts as living too, counts asmurder, it’s notorious, ahyoucan’tdenyit,somepeoplearelucky,bornofawetdreamanddeadbeforemorning, Imust say I’m tempted, no, the testis has yet to descend thatwouldwantany truckwithme, it’smutual, another gleamdown thedrain.AndnowonelastlookatMahood,atWorm,we’llneverhaveanotherchance,ahwilltheyneverlearnsense,there’snothingtobegot,therewasneveranythingtobegotfrom those stories, I havemine, somewhere, let them tell it tome, they’ll see

there’snothingtobegotfromiteither,nothingtobegotfromme,itwillbetheend,ofthishellofstories,you’dthinkIwascursingthem,alwaysthesameoldtrick,you’dbesorryforthem,perhapsI’llcursethemyet,they’llknowwhatitistobeasubjectofconversation,I’llimputewordstothemyouwouldn’tthrowtoadog,anear,amouthand in themiddlea fewragsofmind, I’llgetmyownback,afewflittersofmind,they’llseewhatit’slike,I’llclapaneyeatrandominthethickofthemess,ontheoffchancesomethingmightstrayinfrontofit,then I’ll let downmy trousers and shit stories on them, stories, photographs,records, sites, lights, gods and fellow-creatures, the daily round and commontask,observing thewhile,Beborn,dearfriends,beborn,entermyarse,you’lljust lovemy colic pains, itwon’t take long, I’ve the bloody flux. They’ll seewhatit’slike,thatit’snotsoeasyasitlooks,thatyoumusthaveatasteforit,that youmust beborn alive, that it’s not somethingyou can acquire, thatwillteachthemperhaps,tokeeptheirnoseoutofmybusiness.Yes,ifIcould,but Ican’t,whateverit is,Ican’tanymore,therewasperhapsatimeIcould,inthedayswhenIwasburstingmyguts,asperinstructions,tobringbacktothefoldthedearlostlamb,I’dbeentoldhewasdear,thathewasdeartome,thatIwasdear tohim, thatweweredear to eachother, allmy life I’vepeltedhimwithtwaddle,thedeardeparted,wonderingwhathecouldpossiblybelike,wonderingwherewecouldpossiblyhavemet,allmylife,well,almost,damnthealmost,allmylife,untilIjoinedhim,andnowit’sIamdeartothem,nowit’stheyaredearto me, glad to hear it, they’ll join us, one by one, what a pity they arenumberless,soarewe,dearcharnel-houseofrenegades,thiseveningdecidedlyeverythingisdear,nomatter,theancientshearnothing,andmyoldquarry,therebesideme,forhimit’sallover,besidemehowareyou,underneathme,we’repiledupinheaps,no,thatwon’tworkeither,nomatter,it’sadetail,forhimit’sallover,himthesecond-last,andformetoo,methelast,itwillsoonbeallover,I’llhearnothingmore,I’venothingtodo,simplywait,it’saslowbusiness,he’llcomeandlieontopofme,liebesideme,mydeartormentor,histurntosufferwhathemademesuffer,minetobeatpeace.Howallcomesrightintheendtobe sure, it’s thanks to patience, thanks to time, it’s thanks to the earth thatrevolvesthattheearthrevolvesnomore,thattimeendsitsmealandpaincomesto an end, you have only towait,without doing anything, it’s no good doinganything, andwithout understanding, there’s nohelp inunderstanding, and allcomes right, nothing comes right, nothing, nothing, this will never end, thisvoicewillneverstop,I’malonehere,thefirstandthelast,Inevermadeanyonesuffer, Ineverstoppedanyone’ssufferings,noonewilleverstopmine, they’ll

neverdepart,I’llneverstir,I’llneverknowpeace,neitherwillthey,butwiththisdifference,thattheydon’twantit, theysaytheydon’twantit, theysayIdon’twant it, don’twant peace, after all perhaps they’re right, howcould Iwant it,whatisit,theysayIsuffer,perhapsthey’reright,andthatI’dfeelbetterifIdidthis,saidthat,ifmybodystirred,ifmyheadunderstood,iftheywentsilentanddeparted, perhaps they’re right, how would I know about these things, howwould I understand what they’re talking about. I’ll never stir, never speak,they’llnevergo silent,neverdepart, they’llnevercatchme,never stop trying,that’sthat.I’mlistening.WellIpreferthat,ImustsayIpreferthat,thatwhat,ohyou know, who you, oh I suppose the audience, well well, so there’s anaudience,it’sapublicshow,youbuyyourseatandyouwait,perhapsit’sfree,afree show, you take your seat and you wait for it to begin, or perhaps it’scompulsory,acompulsoryshow,youwaitforthecompulsoryshowtobegin,ittakestime,youhearavoice,perhapsit’sarecitation,that’stheshow,someonereciting, selected passages, old favourites, a poetry matinée, or someoneimprovising,youcanbarelyhearhim, that’s theshow,youcan’t leave,you’reafraidtoleave,itmightbeworseelsewhere,youmakethebestofit,youtryandbereasonable,youcametooearly,herewe’dneedLatin,it’sonlybeginning,ithasn’tbegun,he’sonlypreluding,clearinghisthroat,aloneinhisdressingroom,he’ll appear any moment, he’ll begin any moment, or it’s the stage-manager,givinghisinstructions,hislastrecommendations,beforethecurtainrises,that’sthe show, waiting for the show, to the sound of a murmur, you try and bereasonable, perhaps it’s not a voice at all, perhaps it’s the air, ascending,descending, flowing, eddying, seeking exit, finding none, and the spectators,wherearethey,youdidn’tnotice, intheanguishofwaiting,nevernoticedyouwerewaitingalone, that’s the show,waitingalone, in the restless air, for it tobegin, for something to begin, for there to be something else but you, for thepowertorise,thecouragetoleave,youtryandbereasonable,perhapsyouareblind,probablydeaf,theshowisover,allisover,butwherethenisthehand,thehelpinghand,ormerelycharitable,orthehiredhand,it’salongtimecoming,totake yours and draw you away, that’s the show, free, gratis and for nothing,waitingalone,blind,deaf,youdon’tknowwhere,youdon’tknowforwhat,forahandtocomeanddrawyouaway,somewhereelse,whereperhapsit’sworse.Andnowfor the it, Iprefer that, ImustsayIprefer that,whatamemory, realflypaper, I don’t know, I don’t prefer it anymore, that’s all I know, so whybotheraboutit,athingyoudon’tprefer,justthinkofthat,botheringaboutthat,perish the thought, onemustwait, discover a preference,within one’s bosom,

then itwillbe timeenough to institutean inquiry.Moreover, that’s right, link,link,youneverknow,moreovertheirattitudetowardsmehasnotchanged,Iamdeceived,theyaredeceived,theyhavetriedtodeceiveme,sayingtheirattitudetowardsmehadchanged,buttheyhaven’tdeceivedme,Ididn’tunderstandwhattheyweretryingtodotome,IsaywhatI’mtoldtosay,that’sallthereistoit,andyetIwonder,Idon’tknow,Idon’tfeelamouthonme,Idon’tfeelthejostleofwordsinmymouth,andwhenyousayapoemyoulike,ifyouhappentolikepoetry, in the underground, or in bed, for yourself, the words are there,somewhere,without theleastsound,Idon’t feel thateither,wordsfalling,youdon’tknowwhere,youdon’tknowwhence,dropsofsilencethroughthesilence,Idon’tfeelit,Idon’tfeelamouthonme,norahead,doIfeelanear,franklynow,doIfeelanear,wellfranklynowIdon’t,somuchtheworse,Idon’tfeelan ear either, this is awful,make an effort, Imust feel something, yes, I feelsomething,theysayIfeelsomething,Idon’tknowwhatitis,Idon’tknowwhatIfeel,tellmewhatIfeelandI’lltellyouwhoIam,they’lltellmewhoIam,Iwon’tunderstand,butthethingwillbesaid,they’llhavesaidwhoIam,andI’llhaveheard,withoutanearI’llhaveheard,andI’llhavesaidit,withoutamouthI’llhavesaidit,I’llhavesaiditinsideme,theninthesamebreathoutsideme,perhaps that’s what I feel, an outside and an inside and me in the middle,perhapsthat’swhatIam,thethingthatdividestheworldintwo,ontheonesidetheoutside,on theother the inside, thatcanbeas thinas foil, I’mneitheronesidenortheother,I’minthemiddle,I’mthepartition,I’vetwosurfacesandnothickness,perhapsthat’swhatIfeel,myselfvibrating,I’mthetympanum,ontheonehandthemind,ontheothertheworld,Idon’tbelongtoeither,it’snottomethey’retalking,it’snotofmethey’retalking,no,that’snotit,Ifeelnothingofallthat,trysomethingelse,herdofshites,saysomethingelse,formetohear,Idon’tknowhow,formetosay,Idon’tknowhow,whatclownstheyare,tokeeponsayingthesamethingwhentheyknowit’snottherightone,no, theyknownothingeither,theyforget,theythinktheychangeandtheyneverchange,they’llbetheresayingthesamethingtilltheydie,thenperhapsalittlesilence,till thenextgangarrivesonthesite,Ialoneamimmortal,whatcanyouexpect,Ican’tget born, perhaps that’s their big idea, to keep on saying the same old thing,generationaftergeneration,tillIgomadandbegintoscream,thenthey’llsay,He’smewled,he’llrattle,it’smathematical,let’sgetouttohelloutofhere,nopoint inwaiting for that,othersneedus, forhim it’sover,his troubleswillbeover,he’ssaved,we’vesavedhim,they’reallthesame,theyallletthemselvesbesaved,theyallletthemselvesbeborn,hewasatoughnut,he’llhaveagood

time,abrilliantcareer,infuryandremorse,he’llneverforgivehimself,andsodepart,thuscommuning,inIndianfile,ortwobytwo,alongtheseashore,nowit’stheseashore,ontheshingle,alongthesands,intheeveningair,it’sevening,that’s all I know, evening, shadows, somewhere, anywhere, on the earth. Gomad,yes,butthereitis,whatwouldIgomadwith,andeveningisn’tsureeither,it needn’t be evening, dawn too bestows long shadows, on all that is stillstanding, that’s all thatmatters, only the shadowsmatter,with no life of theirown, no shape and no respite, perhaps it’s dawn, evening of night, it doesn’tmatter,andsodepart,towardsmybrethren,no,noneofthat,nobrethren,that’sright,takeitback,theydon’tknow,theydepart,notknowingwhither,towardstheirmaster,it’spossible,makeanoteofthat,it’sjustpossible,tosuefortheirfreedom,forthemit’stheend,formethebeginning,myendbegins,theystoptolistentomyscreams,they’llneverstopagain,yes,they’llstop,myscreamswillstop, from time to time, I’ll stop screaming, to listen and hear if anyone isanswering,tolookandseeifanyoneiscoming,thengo,closemyeyesandgo,screaming,toscreamelsewhere.Yes,mymouth,butthereitis,Iwon’topenit,Ihavenomouth,andwhataboutit,I’llgrowone,alittleholeatfirst,thenwiderandwider,deeperanddeeper,theairwillgushintome,andoutasecondlater,howling.But is itnot rather toomuch toask, toasksomuch,ofso little, is itreallypolitic?Andwould itnotsuffice,withoutanychange in thestructureofthethingasitnowstands,asitalwaysstood,withoutamouthbeingopenedattheplacewhichevenpaincouldneverline,woulditnotsufficeto,towhat,thethreadislost,nomatter,here’sanother,wouldnotalittlestirsuffice,sometinysubsidenceorupheaval, thatwould start thingsoff, thewhole fabricwouldbeinfected, the ball would start a-rolling, the disturbancewould spread to everypart, locomotion itself would soon appear, trips properly so called, businesstrips,pleasuretrips,researchexpeditions,sabbaticalleaves,jauntsandrambles,honeymoons at home and abroad and long sad solitary tramps in the rain, Iindicate the main trends, athletics, tossing in bed, physical jerks, locomotorataxy, death throes, rigor and rigormortis, emergal of thebony structure, thatshouldsuffice.Unfortunately it’saquestionofwords,ofvoices,onemustnotforget that, onemust try and not forget that completely, of a statement to bemade,bythem,byme,someslightobscurityhere,itmightsometimesalmostbewonderedifalltheirballocksaboutlifeanddeathisnotasforeigntotheirnatureas it is tomine.The fact is theyno longerknowwhere they’vegot to in theiraffair,wherethey’vegotmeto,Ineverknew,I’mwhereIalwayswas,whereverthat is, and their affair, I don’t knowwhat ismeant by that, some process no

doubt,thatI’vegotstuckin,orhaven’tyetcometo,I’vegotnowhere,intheiraffair,that’swhatgallsthem,theywantmetheresomewhere,anywhere,ifonlythey’dstopcommittingreason,onthem,onme,onthepurposetobeachieved,and simplygoon,withno illusion about having begunone dayor ever beingabletoconclude,butit’stoodifficult,toodifficult,foronebereftofpurpose,nottolookforwardtohisend,andbereftofallreasontoexist,backtoatimehedidnot.Difficulttoonottoforget,inyourthirstforsomethingtodo,inordertobedonewith it, and have thatmuch less to do, that there is nothing to be done,nothingspecial tobedone,nothingdoabletobedone.Nopointeither, inyourthirst,yourhunger,no,noneedofhunger, thirst isenough,nopoint in tellingyourselfstories,topassthetime,storiesdon’tpassthetime,nothingpassesthetime,thatdoesn’tmatter,that’showitis,youtellyourselfstories,thenanyoldthing, saying,Nomore stories from this day forth, and the stories go on, it’sstoriesstill,oritwasneverstories,alwaysanyoldthing,foraslongasyoucanremember, no, longer than that, any old thing, the sameold thing, to pass thetime,then,astimedidn’tpass,fornoreasonatall,inyourthirst,tryingtoceaseand never ceasing, seeking the cause, the cause of talking and never ceasing,findingthecause, losingitagain,findingitagain,notfindingitagain,seekingnolonger,seekingagain,findingagain,losingagain,findingnothing,findingatlast, losingagain, talkingwithoutceasing, thirstier thanever,seekingasusual,losingasusual,blatheringaway,wonderingwhatit’sallabout,seekingwhatitcan be you are seeking, exclaiming,Ah yes, sighing,No no, crying, Enough,ejaculating,Notyet, talkingincessantly,anyoldthing,seekingoncemore,anyoldthing,thirstingaway,youdon’tknowwhatfor,ahyes,somethingtodo,nono,nothingtobedone,andnowenoughofthat,unlessperhaps,that’sanidea,let’sseekoverthere,onelast littleeffort,seekwhat,pertinentobjection, letustry anddetermine, beforewe seek,what it can be, beforewe seek over there,over where, talking unceasingly, seeking incessantly, in yourself, outsideyourself,cursingman,cursingGod,stoppingcursing,pastbearing it,goingonbearingit,seekingindefatigably,intheworldofnature,theworldofman,whereisnature,where isman,whereareyou,whatareyouseeking,who isseeking,seekingwho you are, supreme aberration, where you are, what you’re doing,whatyou’vedonetothem,whatthey’vedonetoyou,prattlingalong,wherearethe others, who is talking, not I, where am I, where is the place where I’vealwaysbeen,wherearetheothers,it’stheyaretalking,talkingtome,talkingofme,Ihearthem,I’mmute,whatdotheywant,whathaveIdonetothem,whathave I done toGod,what have they done toGod,what hasGod done to us,

nothing,andwe’vedonenothingtohim,youcan’tdoanythingtohim,hecan’tdo anything to us, we’re innocent, he’s innocent, it’s nobody’s fault, what’snobody’sfault,thisstateofaffairs,whatstateofaffairs,soitis,sobeit,don’tfret,soitwillbe,howso,rattlingon,dyingofthirst,seekingdeterminedly,whattheywant,theywantmetobe,this,that,tohowl,stir,crawloutofhere,beborn,die,listen,I’mlistening,it’snotenough,Imustunderstand,I’mdoingmybest,Ican’tunderstand, Istopdoingmybest, Ican’tdomybest, Ican’tgoon,poordevil,neithercanthey, let themsaywhat theywant,givemesomethingtodo,somethingdoable to do, poor devils, they can’t, they don’t know, they’re likeme,moreandmore,nomoreneedofthem,nomoreneedofanyone,noonecandoanything,it’sIamtalking,thirsting,starving,letitstand,intheiceandinthefurnace,youfeelnothing,strange,youdon’tfeelamouthonyou,youdon’tfeelyourmouthanymore,noneedofamouth,thewordsareeverywhere,insideme,outsideme,wellwell,aminuteagoIhadnothickness,Ihearthem,noneedtohearthem,noneedofahead,impossibletostopthem,impossibletostop,I’minwords, made of words, others’ words, what others, the place too, the air, thewalls,thefloor,theceiling,allwords,thewholeworldisherewithme,I’mtheair, the walls, the walled-in one, everything yields, opens, ebbs, flows, likeflakes,I’malltheseflakes,meeting,mingling,fallingasunder,wherever IgoIfind me, leave me, go towards me, come from me, nothing ever but me, aparticle of me, retrieved, lost, gone astray, I’m all these words, all thesestrangers,thisdustofwords,withnogroundfor theirsettling,noskyfor theirdispersing,comingtogethertosay,fleeingoneanothertosay,thatIamthey,allof them, those thatmerge, those that part, those that nevermeet, and nothingelse, yes, something else, that I’m something quite different, a quite differentthing, a wordless thing in an empty place, a hard shut dry cold black place,wherenothingstirs,nothingspeaks,andthatIlisten,andthatIseek,likeacagedbeastbornofcagedbeastsbornofcagedbeastsbornofcagedbeastsborninacageanddeadinacage,bornandthendead,borninacageandthendeadinacage,inawordlikeabeast,inoneoftheirwords,likesuchabeast,andthatIseek,likesuchabeast,withmylittlestrength,suchabeast,withnothingofitsspeciesleftbutfearandfury,no,thefuryispast,nothingbutfear,nothingofallitsduebutfearcentupled,fearofitsshadow,no,blindfrombirth,ofsoundthen,ifyoulike,we’llhavethat,onemusthavesomething,it’sapity,butthereitis,fearofsound,fearofsounds,thesoundsofbeasts,thesoundsofmen,soundsinthedaytimeandsoundsatnight,that’senough,fearofsounds,allsounds,moreorless,moreorlessfear,allsounds,there’sonlyone,continuous,dayandnight,

what is it, it’s stepscomingandgoing, it’svoices speaking foramoment, it’sbodiesgroping theirway, it’s theair, it’s things, it’s the air among the things,that’senough,thatIseek,likeit,no,notlikeit,likeme,inmyownway,whatamIsaying,aftermyfashion,thatIseek,whatdoIseeknow,whatitis,itmustbethat,itcanonlybethat,whatitis,whatitcanbe,whatwhatcanbe,whatIseek,no,whatIhear,nowitcomesbacktome,allbacktome,theysayIseekwhatitisIhear,Ihearthem,nowitcomesbacktome,whatitcanpossiblybe,andwhereitcanpossiblycomefrom,sinceallissilenthere,andthewallsthick,andhowImanage,withoutfeelinganearonme,orahead,orabody,orasoul,howImanage,todowhat,howImanage,it’snotclear,deardear,yousayit’snot clear, something iswanting tomake it clear, I’ll seek,what iswanting, tomakeeverythingclear,I’malwaysseekingsomething,it’stiringintheend,andit’s only thebeginning, how Imanage, under such conditions, todowhat I’mdoing,what am I doing, Imust find outwhat I’m doing, tellmewhat you’redoingandI’llaskyouhowit’spossible,Ihear,yousayIhear,andthatIseek,it’salie,Iseeknothing,nothinganymore,nomatter,let’sleaveit,noharking,andthatIseek,listentothemnow,joggingmymemory,seekwhat,firstlywhatitis,secondlywhereitcomesfrom,thirdlyhowImanage,that’sit,nowwe’vegot it, thirdly how I manage, to do it, seeing that this, considering that that,inasmuchasGodknowswhat,that’sclearnow,howImanagetohear,andhowImanagetounderstand,it’salie,whatwouldIunderstandwith,that’swhatI’masking,howImanagetounderstand,ohnotthehalf,northehundredth,northefive thousandth, letusgoondividingby fifty,nor thequartermillionth, that’senough, but a little nevertheless, it’s essential, it’s preferable, it’s a pity, butthere it is, just a little all the same, the least possible, it’s appreciable, it’senough,theroughmeaningofoneexpressioninathousand,intenthousand,letusgoonmultiplyingbyten,nothingmorerestfulthanarithmetic,inahundredthousand, inamillion, it’s toomuch, too little,we’vegonewrongsomewhere,nomatter,thereisnogreatdifferenceherebetweenoneexpressionandthenext,when you’ve grasped one you’ve grasped them all, I am not in that fortunateposition,all,howyouexaggerate,alwaysoutforthewholehog,theallofallandtheallofnothing,neverinthehappygolden,never,always, it’s toomuch,toolittle,often,seldom, letmenowsumup,after thisdigression, there is I,yes, Ifeel it, I confess, I give in, there is I, it’s essential, it’s preferable, Iwouldn’thavesaidso,Iwon’talwayssayso,soletmehastentotakeadvantageofbeingnowobligedtosay,inamannerofspeaking,thatthereisI,ontheonehand,andthisnoiseontheother,thatIneverdoubted,no,letusbelogical,therewasnever

any doubt about that, this noise, on the other, if it is the other, thatwill verylikelybethethemeofournextdeliberation,Isumup,nowthatI’mthereit’sIwilldo thesummingup, it’s Iwill saywhat is tobesaidand thensaywhat itwas, that will be jolly, I sum up, I and this noise, I see nothing else for themoment,butIhaveonlyjusttakenovermyfunctions,Iandthisnoise,andwhataboutit,don’tinterruptme,I’mdoingmybest,Irepeat,Iandthisnoise,onthesubjectofwhich,invertingthenaturalorder,wewouldseemtoknowforcertain,amongother things,whatfollows,namely,ontheonehand,withregardto thenoise,thatithasnotbeenpossibleuptodatetodeterminewithcertainty,orevenapproximately,whatitis,inthewayofnoise,orhowitcomestome,orbywhatorganitisemitted,orbywhatperceived,orbywhatintelligenceapprehended,initsmaindrift,andontheother,thatistosaywithregardtome,thisisgoingtotakealittlelonger,withregardtome,nicetimewe’regoingtohavenow,withregard tome, that it has not yet been our good fortune to establish with anydegreeofaccuracywhatIam,whereIam,whetherIamwordsamongwords,orsilenceinthemidstofsilence,torecallonlytwoofthehypotheseslaunchedinthisconnection,thoughsilencetotellthetruthdoesnotappeartohavebeenveryconspicuousuptonow,butappearancesmaysometimesbedeceptive,Iresume,notyetourgoodfortunetoestablish,amongotherthings,whatIam,no,sorry,alreadymentioned,whatI’mdoing,howImanage,tohear,ifIhear,ifit’sIwhohear, andwhocandoubt it, Idon’tknow,doubt ispresent, in thisconnection,somewhereorother,Iresume,howImanagetohear,ifit’sIwhohear,andhowto understand, ellipse when possible, it saves time, how to understand, sameobservation,andhowithappens,ifit’sIwhospeak,anditmaybeassumeditis,asitmaybesuspecteditisnot,howithappens,ifit’sIwhospeak,thatIspeakwithoutceasing, that I long tocease, that Ican’tcease, I indicate theprincipaldivisions, it’smore synoptic, I resume, not thegood fortune to establish,withregardtome,ifit’sIwhoseek,whatexactlyitisIseek,find,lose,findagain,throw away, seek again, find again, throw away again, no, I never threwanythingaway,neverthrewanythingawayofallthethingsIfound,neverfoundanything that I didn’t lose, never lost anything that I mightn’t as well havethrownaway,ifit’sIwhoseek,find, lose,findagain, loseagain,seekinvain,seeknomore,ifit’sIwhatitis,andifit’snotIwhoitis,andwhatitis,Iseenothing else for the moment, yes I do, I conclude, not the good fortune toestablish,consideringthefutilityofmytellingmyselfevenanyoldthing,topassthetime,whyIdoit,ifit’sIwhodoit,asifreasonswererequiredfordoinganyoldthing,topassthetime,nomatter,thequestionmaybeasked,offtherecord,

why timedoesn’t pass, doesn’t pass, fromyou,why it piles up all about you,instantoninstant,onallsides,deeperanddeeper,thickerandthicker,yourtime,others’time,thetimeoftheancientdeadandthedeadyetunborn,whyitburiesyougrainbygrainneitherdeadnoralive,withnomemoryofanything,nohopeof anything, no knowledge of anything, no history and no prospects, buriedundertheseconds,sayinganyoldthing,yourmouthfullofsand,ohIknowit’simmaterial,timeisonething,Ianother,butthequestionmaybeasked,whytimedoesn’tpass, just like that,off the record,enpassant, topass the time, I thinkthat’sall,forthemoment,Iseenothingelse,Iseenothingwhatever,forthetimebeing.ButIreallymustn’taskmyselfanymorequestions,ifit’sI,Ireallymustnot.Moreresolutions,whilewe’reatit,that’sright,resolutely,moreresolutions.Makeabundantuseoftheprincipleofparsimony,asifitwerefamiliartome,itisnot too late.Assumenotablyhenceforward that the thing saidand the thingheardhaveacommonsource,resistingforthispurposethetemptationtocallinquestion the possibility of assuming anythingwhatever. Situate this source inme,withoutspecifyingwhereexactly,nofinicking,anythingispreferabletotheconsciousnessofthirdpartiesand,moregenerallyspeaking,ofanouterworld.Carry if necessary this process of compression to the point of abandoning allotherpostulatesthanthatofadeafhalf-wit,hearingnothingofwhathesaysandunderstanding even less. Evoke at painful junctures, when discouragementthreatenstoraiseitshead,theimageofavastcretinousmouth,red,blubberandslobbering,insolitaryconfinement,extrudingindefatigably,withanoiseofwetkissesandwashinginatub,thewordsthatobstructit.Setasideonceandforall,atthesametimeastheanalogywithorthodoxdamnation,allideaofbeginningand end. Overcome, that goes without saying, the fatal leaning towardsexpressiveness. Equate me, without pity or scruple, with him who exists,somehow,nomatterhow,nofinicking,withhimwhosestorythisstoryhadthebriefambitiontobe.Better,ascribetomeabody.Betterstill,arrogatetomeamind.Speakofaworldofmyown,sometimesreferredtoastheinner,withoutchoking.Doubtnomore.Seeknomore.Takeadvantageofthebrand-newsouland substantiality to abandon, with the only possible abandon, deep downwithin. And finally, these and other decisions having been taken, carry oncheerfully as before. Something has changed nevertheless. Not a word aboutMahood,orWorm,forthepast–ahyes,Inearlyforgot,speakoftime,withoutflinching, and what is more, it just occurs to me, by a natural association ofideas,treatofspacewiththesameeasygrace,asifitwerenotbungeduponallsides,afewinchesaway,afterallthat’ssomething,afewinches,tobethankful

for,itgivesoneair,roomforthetonguetololl,tohavelolled,tolollon.WhenIthink, that is tosay,no, let it stand,whenI thinkof the timeI’vewastedwiththesebran-dips,beginningwithMurphy,whowasn’teventhefirst,whenIhadme,onthepremises,withineasyreach,totteringundermyownskinandbones,realones,rottingwithsolitudeandneglect,tillIdoubtedmyownexistence,andevenstill,today,Ihavenofaithinit,none,sothatIhavetosay,whenIspeak,Who speaks, and seek, and so on and similarly for all the other things thathappentomeandforwhichsomeonemustbefound,forthingsthathappenmusthave someone to happen to, someone must stop them. But Murphy and theothers, and last but not least the two old buffers here present, could not stopthem, the things that happened to me, nothing could happen to them, of thethingsthathappenedtome,andnothingelseeither,thereisnothingelse,letusbe lucidforonce,nothingelsebutwhathappens tome, suchasspeaking,andsuchas seeking, andwhichcannothappen tome,whichprowl roundme, likebodies in torment, the torment of no abode, no repose, no, like hyenas,screeching and laughing, no, no better, nomatter, I’ve shutmy doors againstthem, I’m not at home to anything, my doors are shut against them, perhapsthat’showI’ll findsilence,andpeaceat last,byopeningmydoorsand lettingmyself be devoured, they’ll stop howling, they’ll start eating, the maws nowhowling.Openup,openup,you’llbeall right,you’ll see.Whata joy it is, toturnandlookastern,betweentwovisitstothedepths,scaninvainthehorizonforasail,it’sarealpleasure,uponmyworditis,tobeunabletodrown,undersuchconditions.Yes,butthereitis,Iamfarfrommydoors,farfrommywalls,someonewould have towake the turnkey, theremust be one somewhere, farfrommy subject too, let us get back to it, it’s gone, no longer therewhere IthoughtIlastsawit,strangethismixtureofsolidandliquid,wherewasI,ahyes,mysubject,no longer there,orno longer thesame,or Imistake theplace,no,yes,it’sthesame,stillthere,inthesameplace,it’sapity,Iwouldhavelikedtoloseit,Iwouldhavelikedtoloseme,losemethewayIcouldlongago,whenIstillhadsomeimagination,closemyeyesandbeinawood,orontheseashore,orinatownwhereIdon’tknowanyone,it’snight,everyonehasgonehome,Iwalkthestreets,Ilashintothemoneaftertheother,it’sthetownofmyyouth,I’mlookingformymothertokillher,Ishouldhavethoughtofthatabitearlier,beforebeingborn, it’sraining,I’mall right, Istridealongonthecrownof thestreetwithgreatyawstoleftandright,nowthat’sallover,withclosedeyesIseethe same aswith them open, namely, wait, I’ll say it, I’ll try and say it, I’mcurioustoknowwhatitcanpossiblybethatIsee,withclosedeyes,withopen

eyes, nothing, I see nothing, well that is a disappointment, I was hoping forsomethingbetter than that, is thatwhat it is tobeunable to loseyourself, I’maskingmyself a question, is thatwhat it is, to see nothing, nomatterwhere Ilook, nor, eyeless, the little creature in his different guises coming and going,nowinshadow,nowinlight,doinghisbest,seekingthemeansofstayingamongtheliving,ofgettingoffwithhislife,orshutuplookingoutofthewindowattheever-changing,isthatit,tobeunabletolosemyself,Idon’tknow,whatdidIseeintheolddays,whenIventuredaquicklook,Idon’tknow,Idon’tremember.ThereIaminanycaseequippedwitheyes,whichIopenandshut,two,perhapsblue,knowingitavailsnothing,forIhaveaheadnowtoo,whereallmannerofthings are known, can it be ofme I’m speaking, is it possible, of course not,that’sanotherthingIknow,I’llspeakofmewhenIspeaknomore.Inanycaseit’snotaquestionofspeakingofme,butofspeaking,ofspeakingnomore,thisslight confusion augurs well, now I’ll have to find a name for this latestsurrogate, his head splittingwith vile certainties and his doll’s eyes, later on,later on, first Imust describe him in greater detail, seewhat he’s capable of,whencehecomesandwhitherhereturns,inhisheadofcourse,wedon’tintendto relapse into picaresque, with the stink of Mahood and Worm still in ournostrils.Now it’s I theorator, thebeleaguerershavedeparted, I ammasteronboard,aftertherats,Inolongercrawlbetweenthethwarts,underthemoon,intheshadowofthelash,strangethismixtureofsolidandliquid,alittleairnowisallweneedtocompletetheelements,no,I’mforgettingfire,unusualhellwhenyoucometothinkofit,perhapsit’sparadise,perhapsit’stheearth,perhapsit’stheshoresofalakebeneaththeearth,youscarcelybreathe,butyoubreathe,it’snotcertain,youseenothing,hearnothing,youhearthelongkissofdeadwaterandmud,aloftatlessthanascoreoffathomsmencomeandgo,youdreamofthem,inyourlongdreamthere’saplacefor thewaking,youwonderhowyouknowallyouknow,youevenseegrass,grassatdawn,glaucouswithdew,notsoblindasall thatmyeyes, they’renotmine,minearedone, theydon’tevenweep any more, they open and shut by the force of habit, fifteen minutesexposure,fifteenminutesshutter,liketheowlcoopedinthegrottoinBatterseaPark, ahmisery,will I never stopwanting a life formyself?No no, no headeither, anything you like, but not a head, in his head he doesn’t go anywhereeither,I’vetried,lashedtothestake,blindfold,gaggedtothegullet,youtaketheair, under the elms in se,murmuringShelley, impervious to the shafts.Yes, ahead, but solid, solid bone, and you imbedded in it, like a fossil in the rock.PerhapstheregoIafterall.Ican’tgooninanycase.ButImustgoon.SoI’llgo

on.Air,air, I’llseekair,air in time, theairof time,andinspace, inmyhead,that’showI’llgoon.Allveryfine,butthevoiceisfailing,it’sthefirsttime,no,I’vebeenthroughthat,ithasevenstopped,manyatime,that’showitwillendagain,I’llgosilent,forwantofair,thenthevoicewillcomebackandI’llbeginagain.Myvoice.Thevoice.Ihardlyhearitanymore.I’mgoingsilent.Hearingthisvoicenomore,that’swhatIcallgoingsilent.ThatistosayI’llhearitstill,ifIlistenhard.I’lllistenhard.Listeninghard,that’swhatIcallgoingsilent.I’llhearitstill,broken,faint,unintelligible,ifIlistenhard.Hearingitstill,withouthearingwhatitsays,that’swhatIcallgoingsilent.Thenitwillflareup,likeakindling fire,adying fire,Mahoodexplained that tome,and I’ll emerge fromsilence.Hearingtoolittletobeabletospeak,that’smysilence.ThatistosayIneverstopspeaking,butsometimestoolow,toofaraway,toofarwithin,tohear,no,Ihear,tounderstand,notthatIeverunderstand.Itfades,itgoesin,behindthedoor,I’mgoingsilent,there’sgoingtobesilence,I’lllisten,it’sworsethanspeaking,no,noworse,nobetter.Unlessthistimeit’sthetruesilence, theoneI’llneverhavetobreakanymore,whenIwon’thavetolistenanymore,whenIcandribbleinmycorner,myheadgone,mytonguedead,theoneIhavetriedtoearn, that I thoughtIcouldearn. I’mgoing tostop, that is tosayI’mgoing tolookasifIhad,itwillbelikeeverythingelse.Asifanyonewerelookingatme!As if itwere I! Itwillbe thesamesilence, the sameasever,murmurouswithmuted lamentation, panting and exhaling of impossible sorrow, like distantlaughter,andbriefspellsofhush,asofoneburiedbeforehistime.Longorshort,thesamesilence.ThenIresurrectandbeginagain.That’swhatI’llhavegotforallmypains.Unless this timeit’s therealsilenceat last.PerhapsI’vesaid thething thathad tobesaid, thatgivesme theright tobedonewithspeech,donewithlistening,donewithhearing,withoutmyknowingit.I’mlisteningalready,I’m going silent. The next time I won’t go to such pains, I’ll tell one ofMahood’s old tales, nomatterwhich, they are all alike, theywon’t tireme, Iwon’tbotheranymoreaboutme,I’llknowthatnomatterwhatIsaytheresultisthesame, that I’llneverbesilent,neveratpeace.Unless I tryoncemore, justoncemore,onelasttime,tosaywhathastobesaid,aboutme,Ifeelit’saboutme, perhaps that’s the mistake I make, perhaps that’s my sin, so as to havenothingmoretosay,nothingmoretohear,tillIdie.It’scomingback.I’mglad.I’lltryagain,quickbeforeitgoesagain.Trywhat?Idon’tknow.Tocontinue.Now there is no one left. That’s a good continuation. No one left, it’sembarrassing,ifIhadamemoryitmighttellmethatthisisthesignoftheend,thishavingnooneleft,noonetotalkto,noonetotalktoyou,sothatyouhave

tosay,It’sIwhoamdoingthistome,Iwhoamtalkingtomeaboutme.Thenthebreathfails,theendbegins,yougosilent,it’stheend,short-lived,youbeginagain,youhadforgotten,there’ssomeonethere,someonetalkingtoyou,aboutyou,abouthim,thenasecond,thenathird,thenthesecondagain,thenallthreetogether,thesefiguresjusttogiveyouanidea,talkingtoyou,aboutyou,aboutthem,allIhavetodoislisten,thentheydepart,onebyone,andthevoicegoeson,it’snottheirs,theywereneverthere,therewasneveranyonebutyou,talkingtoyouaboutyou, thebreathfails, it’snearly theend, thebreath stops, it’s theend,short-lived,Ihearsomeonecallingme,itbeginsagain,thatmustbehowitgoes,ifIhadamemory.Eveniftherewerethings,athingsomewhere,ascrapofnature, to talk about, youmight be reconciled to having no one left, to beingyourself the talker, if only therewere a thing somewhere, to talk about, eventhoughyoucouldn’tseeit,orknowwhatitwas,simplyfeelitthere,withyou,youmighthavethecouragenot togosilent,no, it’s togosilent thatyouneedcourage, for you’ll be punished, punished for having gone silent, and yet youcan’tdootherwisethangosilent,thanbepunishedforhavinggonesilent,thanbepunishedforhavingbeenpunished,sinceyoubeginagain,thebreathfails,ifonlytherewereathing,butthereitis,thereisnot,theytookawaythingswhentheydeparted, theytookawaynature, therewasneveranyone,anyonebutme,anythingbutme, talkingtomeofme, impossible tostop, impossibletogoon,butImustgoon,I’llgoon,withoutanyone,withoutanything,butme,butmyvoice,thatistosayI’llstop,I’llend,it’stheendalready,short-lived,whatisit,alittlehole,yougodownintoit,intothesilence,it’sworsethanthenoise,youlisten, it’s worse than talking, no, notworse, noworse, youwait, in anguish,havetheyforgottenme,no,yes,no,someonecallsme,Icrawloutagain,whatisit, a little hole, in the wilderness. It’s the end that is the worst, no, it’s thebeginningthatistheworst,thenthemiddle,thentheend,intheendit’stheendthatistheworst,thisvoicethat,Idon’tknow,it’severysecondthatistheworst,it’sachronicle,thesecondspass,oneafteranother,jerkily,noflow,theydon’tpass, they arrive, bang, bang, they bang into you, bounce off, fall and nevermoveagain,whenyouhavenothinglefttosayyoutalkoftime,secondsoftime,therearesomepeopleaddthemtogethertomakealife,Ican’t,eachoneisthefirst,no,thesecond,orthethird,I’mthreesecondsold,ohnoteverydayoftheweek. I’ve been away, done something, been in a hole, I’ve just crawled out,perhapsIwentsilent,no,Isaythatinordertosaysomething,inordertogoonalittlemore,youmustgoonalittlemore,youmustgoonalongtimemore,youmustgoonevermore,ifIcouldrememberwhatIhavesaidIcouldrepeatit,ifI

couldlearnsomethingbyheartI’dbesaved,Ihavetokeeponsayingthesamething and each time it’s an effort, the secondsmust be alike and each one isinfernal, what am I saying now, I’m saying I wish I knew. And yet I havememories, I rememberWorm, that is to say Ihave retained thename,and theother,whatishisname,whatwashisname,inhisjar,Icanseehimstill,betterthanIcanseeme,Iknowhowhelived,nowIremember,Ialonesawhim,butno one sees me, nor him, I don’t see him anymore,Mahood, he was calledMahood,Idon’tseehimanymore,Idon’tknowhowhelivedanymore,heisn’tthere any more, he was never there, in his jar, I never saw him, and yet Iremember,Irememberhavingtalkedabouthim,Imusthavetalkedabouthim,thesamewordsrecurandtheyareyourmemories.ItisIinventedhim,himandsomanyothers,andtheplaceswheretheypassed,theplaceswheretheystayed,inordertospeak,sinceIhadtospeak,withoutspeakingofme,Icouldn’tspeakof me, I was never told I had to speak of me, I invented my memories, notknowingwhat Iwas doing, not one is ofme. It is they askedme to speak ofthem, theywanted to knowwhat theywere, how they lived, that suitedme, Ithoughtthatwouldsuitme,sinceIhadnothingtosayandhadtosaysomething,IthoughtIwasfreetosayanyoldthing,solongasIdidn’tgosilent.ThenIsaidtomyself thatafterallperhaps itwasn’tanyold thing, the thingIwassaying,thatitmightwellbethethingdemandedofme,assumingsomethingwasbeingdemandedofme.No,Ididn’tthinkanythingandIdidn’tsayanythingtomyself,IdidwhatIcould,athingbeyondmystrength,andoftenforexhaustionIgaveup doing it, and yet it went on being done, the voice being heard, the voicewhich couldnot bemine, since I had none left, and yetwhich could only bemine, since I could not go silent, and since Iwas alone, in a placewhere novoicecouldreachme.Yes,inmylife,sincewemustcallitso,therewerethreethings,theinabilitytospeak,theinabilitytobesilent,andsolitude,that’swhatI’vehadtomakethebestof.Yes,nowIcanspeakofmylife,I’mtootiredforniceties,butIdon’tknowifIeverlived,Ihavereallynoopiniononthesubject.However thatmaybe I think I’ll soongo silent for good, in spite of its beingprohibited.Then,yes,phut,justlikethat,justlikeoneoftheliving,thenI’llbedead,IthinkI’llsoonbedead,IhopeIfinditachange.Ishouldhavelikedtogosilent first, thereweremoments I thought thatwouldbemyreward for havingspokensolongandsovaliantly,toenterlivingintosilence,soastobeabletoenjoyit,no,Idon’tknowwhy,soastofeelmyselfsilent,onewithallthisquietairshatteredunceasinglybymyvoicealone,no,it’snotrealair,Ican’tsayit,Ican’tsaywhyIshouldhavelikedtobesilentalittlebeforebeingdead,soasin

theendtobealittleasIalwayswasandnevercouldbe,withoutfearofworsetocomepeacefullyintheplacewhereIalwayswasandcouldneverrestinpeace,no,Idon’tknow,it’ssimplerthanthat,Iwantedmyself,inmyownlandforabriefspace,Ididn’twanttodieastrangerinthemidstofstrangers,astrangerinmyownmidst,surroundedbyinvaders,no,Idon’tknowwhatIwanted,Idon’tknowwhat I thought, Imust havewanted somany things, imagined somanythings,whileIwastalking,withoutknowingexactlywhat,enoughtogoblind,withlongingsandvisions,minglingandmerginginoneanother,I’dhavebeenbetter employedmindingwhat Iwas saying. But it didn’t happen like that, ithappenedlikethis,thewayit’shappeningnow,thatistosay,Idon’tknow,youmustn’tbelievewhatI’msaying,Idon’tknowwhatI’msaying,I’mdoingasIalwaysdid,I’mgoingonasbestIcan.AstobelievingIshallgosilentforgoodandall,Idon’tbelieveitparticularly,Ialwaysbelievedit,asIalwaysbelievedIwould never go silent, you can’t call that believing, it’s my walls. But hasnothingreallychanged,allthistime?IfinsteadofhavingsomethingtosayIhadsomething to do, with my hands or feet, some little job, sorting things forexample,orsimplyarrangingthings,supposeforthesakeofargumentIhadthejobofmovingthingsfromoneplacetoanother,thenI’dknowwhereIwas,andhowfarIhadgot,no,notnecessarily,Icanseeitfromhere,theywouldcontrivethings in such a way that I couldn’t suspect the two vessels, the one to beemptiedandtheonetobefilled,ofbeinginrealityoneandthesame,itwouldbewater,water,withmythimbleI’dgoanddrawitfromonecontainerandthenI’dgoandpouritintoanother,ortherewouldbefour,orahundred,halfofthemtobe filled, the other half to be emptied, numbered, the even to be emptied, theuneven to be filled, no, it would be more complicated, less symmetrical, nomatter,tobeemptied,andfilled,inacertainway,acertainorder,inaccordancewith certain homologies, theword is not too strong, so that I’d have to think,tanks,communicating,communicating,connectedbypipesunderthefloor,Icansee it from here, always showing the same level, no, thatwouldn’twork, toohopeless,they’darrangeformetohavelittleattacksofhopefromtimetotime,yes,pipesandtaps,Icanseeitfromhere,sothatImightfoolmyselffromtimetotime,ifIhadthattodo,insteadofthis,somelittlejobwithfluids,fillingandemptying,alwaysthesamevessel,I’dbegoodat that, itwouldbeabetter lifethan this,no, Imustn’t start complaining, I’dhaveabody, Iwouldn’thave tospeak,I’dhearmysteps,almostwithoutceasing,andthenoiseofthewater,andthecryingof theair trappedinthepipes,Idon’tunderstand,I’dhaveboutsofzeal,I’dsaytomyself,ThequickerIdoitthequickeritwillbedone,thethings

one has to listen to, that’s where hope would come in, it wouldn’t be dark,impossible todosuchwork in thedark, thatdepends,yes, Imustsay I seenowindow,fromhere,whereasherethathasnoimportance,thatIseenowindow,hereIneedn’tcomeandgo,fortunately,Icouldn’t,norbedextrous,fornaturallythewaterwouldhavegreatvalueandtheleastdropspiltontheway,orintheactofdrawing,orintheactofpouring,wouldcostmedear,andhowcouldyoutell,inthedark,ifadrop,what’sthisstory,it’sastory,nowI’vetoldanotherlittlestory,aboutme,aboutthelifethatmighthavebeenmineforallthedifferenceitwouldhavemade,whichwasperhapsmine,perhapsIwentthroughthatbeforebeing deemed worthy of going through this, who knows towards what highdestinyIamheading,unlessIamcomingfromit.Butonceagainthefablemustbeofanother, Iseehimsowell,comingandgoingamonghiscasks, trying tostophishandfromtrembling,droppinghisthimble,listeningtoitbouncingandrollingonthefloor,scrapingroundforitwithhisfoot,goingdownonhisknees,goingdownonhisbelly,crawling,itstopsthere,itmusthavebeenI,butIneversawmyself, so itcan’thavebeenI, Idon’tknow,howcanI recognisemyselfwhonevermademyacquaintance, it stops there, that’sall Iknow, Idon’t seehim any more, I’ll never see him again, yes I will, now he’s there with theothers, I won’t name them again, you say that for something to say, you sayanythingforsomethingtosay,somedothis,othersthat,hedoesasIsaid,Idon’tremember,he’llcomeback,tokeepmecompany,onlythewickedaresolitary,I’llseehimagain,it’shisfault,hisfaultforwantingtoknowwhathewaslike,andhowhelived,orhe’llnevercomeback,it’soneortheother,theydon’tallcomeback,ImeantheremustbesomeIhaveonlyseenonce,uptonow,verytrue, it’s onlybeginning, I feel the end at hand and thebeginning likewise, toeverymanhisorbit,that’sobvious.But,andhereIreturntothecharge,buthasnothing really changed, all this mortal time, I’m speaking now of me, yes,henceforwardIshallspeakofnonebutme,that’sdecided,eventhoughIshouldnotsucceed,there’snoreasonwhyIshouldsucceed,soIneedhavenoqualms.Nothingchanged?Imustbeageingallthesame,bah,Iwasalwaysaged,alwaysageing,andageingmakesnodifference,nottomentionthatallthisisnotaboutme,hell,I’vecontradictedmyself,nomatter.Solongasonedoesnotknowwhatone is sayingandcan’t stop to inquire, in tranquillity, fortunately, fortunately,onewouldliketostop,butunconditionally,Iresume,solongas,solongas,letmesee,solongasone,solongashe,ahfuckallthat,solongasthis,thenthat,agreed, that’s good enough, I nearly got stuck. Help, help, if I could onlydescribethisplace,Iwhoamsogoodatdescribingplaces,walls,ceilings,floors,

theyaremyspeciality,doors,windows,whathaven’tI imaginedinthewayofwindowsinthecourseofmycareer,someopenedonthesea,allyoucouldseewasseaandsky, ifIcouldputmyself inaroom,thatwouldbetheendof thewordy-gurdy,evendoorless,evenwindowless,nothingbutthefoursurfaces,thesixsurfaces,ifIcouldshutmyselfup,itwouldbeamine,itcouldbeblackdark,I couldbemotionless and fixed, I’d find away to explore it, I’d listen to theecho,I’dget toknowit, I’dget toremember it, I’dbehome,I’dsaywhat it’slike, inmy home, instead of any old thing, this place, if I could describe thisplace,portrayit,I’vetried,Ifeelnoplace,noplaceroundme,there’snoendtome,Idon’tknowwhatitis,itisn’tflesh,itdoesn’tend,it’slikeair,nowIhaveit,yousaythat,tosaysomething,youwon’tsayitlong,likegas,balls,balls,theplace, thenwe’ll see, first theplace, then I’ll findme in it, I’llputme in it, asolid lump, in themiddle, or in a corner,well propped up on three sides, theplace,ifonlyIcouldfeelaplaceforme,I’vetried,I’lltryagain,nonewasevermine,thatseaundermywindow,higherthanthewindow,andtherow-boat,doyouremember,andtheriver,andthebay,IknewIhadmemories,pitytheyarenotofme,and the stars, and thebeacons,and the lightsof thebuoys,and themountain burning, it was the time nothing was too good for me, the othersbenefitedbyit,theydiedlikeflies,ortheforest,aroofisnotindispensable,aninterior, if I could be in a forest, caught in a thicket, or wandering round incircles,itwouldbetheendofthisblither,I’ddescribetheleaves,onebyone,atthemomentoftheirgrowing,atthemomentoftheirgivingshade,atthemomentoftheirfalling,thosearegoodmoments,foronewhohasnottosay,Butit’snotI, it’snotI,whereamI,whatamIdoing,all thistime,asif thatmattered,butthere it is, that takes theheartoutofyou,yourheart isn’t in itanymore,yourheartthatwas,amongthebrambles,cradledbytheshadows,youtrythesea,youtry the town, you look for yourself in themountains and the plains, it’s onlynatural,youwantyourself,youwantyourselfinyourownlittlecorner,it’snotlove,notcuriosity, it’sbecauseyou’re tired,youwant to stop, travelnomore,seeknomore,lienomore,speaknomore,closeyoureyes,butyourown,inawordlayyourhandsonyourself,afterthatyou’llmakeshortworkofit.Inoticeonething,theothershavevanished,completely,Idon’tlikeit.Notice,Inoticenothing, Igoonasbest Ican, if itbegins tomeansomething Ican’thelp it, Ihavepassedbyhere,thishaspassedbyme,thousandsoftimes,itsturnhascomeagain,itwillpassonandsomethingelsewillbethere,anotherinstantofmyoldinstant,thereitis,theoldmeaningthatI’llgivemyself,thatIwon’tbeabletogivemyself,there’sagodforthedamned,asonthefirstday,todayisthefirst

day,itbegins,Iknowitwell,I’llrememberitasIgoalong,alladownitI’llbebornandborn,birthsfornothing,andcometonightwithouthavingbeen.Lookat this Tunis pink, it’s dawn. If I could only shut myself up, quick, I’ll shutmyselfup, itwon’tbe I,quick, I’llmakeaplace, itwon’tbemine, it doesn’tmatter,Idon’tfeelanyplaceforme,perhapsthatwillcome,I’llmakeitmine,I’llputmyselfinit,I’llputsomeoneinit,I’llfindsomeoneinit,I’llputmyselfinhim,I’llsayhe’sI,perhapshe’llkeepme,perhapstheplacewillkeepus,meinsidetheother,theplaceallroundus,itwillbeover,allover,Iwon’thavetotryandmoveanymore,I’llclosemyeyes,allI’llhavetodoistalk,thatwillbeeasy,I’llhavethingstosay,aboutme,aboutmylife,I’llmakeitagoodone,I’llknowwho’stalking,andaboutwhat,I’llknowwhereIam,perhapsI’llbeabletogosilent,perhapsthat’sallthey’rewaitingfor,theretheyareagain,topardonme,waitingformetoreachhome,topardonme,it’sthelietheyrefusetostop,I’llclosemyeyes,behappyatlast,that’sthewayitisthismorning.Morning,Icallthatmorning,that’sright,shilly-shallyalittlelonger,Icall thatmorning,Ihaven’tmanywords, Ihaven’tmuchchoice, Idon’tchoose, thewordcame, Ishould have avoided this bright stain, it’s the dayspring, but it doesn’t last, Iknowit,Icallthatthedayspring,ifyoucouldonlyseeit.I’moff,youwouldn’tthinkso,perhapsit’smylastgallop,Ismellthestable,Ialwayssmeltthestable,it’sIsmellofthestable,there’snostablebutme,forme.No,Iwon’tdoit,whatwon’tIdo,asifthatdependedonme,Iwon’tseekmyhomeanymore,Idon’tknowwhatI’lldo,itwouldbeoccupiedalready,therewouldbesomeonetherealready, someone far gone, he wouldn’t want me, I can understand him, I’ddisturbhim,whatamIgoingtosaynow,I’mgoingtoaskmyself,I’mgoingtoaskquestions, 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 knowmillions, and then there are plans,when questions fail there are always plans,you saywhat you’ll say andwhat youwon’t say, that doesn’t commit you toanything and the evilmoment passes, it drops stone dead, suddenly you hearyourselftalkingaboutGodknowswhatasifyouhaddonenothingelseallyourlife,andneitherhaveyou,youcomebackfromafarplace,backtolife, that’swhereyoushouldbe,whereyouare,farfromhere,farfromeverything,ifonlyIcouldgothere,ifonlyIcoulddescribeit,Iwhoamsogoodattopography,that’sright,aspirations,whenplansfailtherearealwaysaspirations,it’saknack,youmustsayitslowly,Ifonlythis,ifonlythat,thatgivesyoutime,timeforacudoflonging to riseup in thebackofyourgullet,nothingremainsbut to lookas ifyouenjoyedchewingit,there’snoknowingwherethatmayleadyou,ontracks

asbeatenasthedayislong,oftenyoupassyourselfby,someonepasseshimselfby,ifonlyyouknew,that’sright,aspirations,youturnandlookbehindyou,sodoes the other, you weep for him, he weeps for you, it’s screamingly sad,anythingratherthanlaughter.Whatelse,opinions,comparisons,anythingratherthan laughter,allhelps,can’thelphelping, togetyouover theprettypass, thethings you have to listen to, what pretty pass, it’s not I speaking, it’s not Ihearing,letusnotgointothat,letusgoonasifIweretheonlyoneintheworld,whereasI’mtheonlyoneabsentfromit,orwithothers,whatdifferencedoesitmake, others present, others absent, they are not obliged to make themselvesmanifest,allthatisneededistowanderandletwander,bethisslowboundlesswhirlwind and every particle of its dust, it’s impossible. Someone speaks,someonehears,noneedtogoanyfurther,itisnothe,it’sI,oranother,orothers,whatdoesitmatter,thecaseisclear,itisnothe,hewhoIknowIam,that’sallIknow,who I cannot say I am, I can’t say anything, I’ve tried, I’m trying, heknowsnothing,knowsofnothing,neitherwhat it is tospeak,norwhat it is tohear,toknownothing,tobecapableofnothing,andtohavetotry,youdon’ttryanymore,noneedtotry,itgoesonbyitself,itdragsonbyitself,fromwordtoword,alabouringwhirl,youareinitsomewhere,everywhere,nothe,ifonlyIcould forgethim,haveone secondof thisnoise that carriesmeaway,withouthavingtosay,Idon’t,Ihaven’ttime,It’snotI,Iamhe,afterall,whynot,whynot say it, Imusthave said it, aswell that as anythingelse, it’snot I, not I, Ican’t say it, it came like that, it comes like that, it’s not I, if only it could beabouthim,ifonlyitcouldcomeabouthim,I’ddenyhim,withpleasure,ifthatcouldhelp,it’sI,hereit’sI,speaktomeofhim,letmespeakofhim,that’sallIask,Ineveraskedforanything,makemespeakofhim,whatamess,nowthereisnooneleft,longmayitlast.Intheenditcomestothat,tothesurvivalofthatalone, then thewordscomeback,someonesaysI,unbelieving. IfonlyIcouldmake an effort, an effort of attention, to try and discover what’s happening,what’shappening tome,what then, Idon’tknow,I’veforgottenmyapodosis,but I can’t, I don’t hear anymore, I’m sleeping, they call that sleeping, theretheyareagain,we’llhavetostartkillingthemagain,Ihearthishorriblenoise,coming back takes time, I don’t knowwhere from, I was nearly there, I wasnearly sleeping, I call that sleeping, there is no one but me, there was neveranyonebutme,hereImean,elsewhereisanothermatter,Iwasneverelsewhere,hereismyonlyelsewhere, it’sIwhodothis thingandIwhosuffer it, it’snotpossibleotherwise,it’snotpossibleso,it’snotmyfault,allIcansayisthatit’snotmyfault,it’snotanyone’sfault,sincethereisn’tanyoneitcan’tbeanyone’s

fault,sincethereisn’tanyonebutmeitcan’tbemine,sometimesyou’dthinkIwasreasoning,I’venoobjection,theymusthavetaughtmereasoningtoo,theymusthavebegun teachingme,before theydesertedme, Idon’t remember thatperiod, but itmust havemarkedme, I don’t remember having been deserted,perhapsIreceivedashock.Strange,thesephrasesthatdiefornoreason,strange,what’sstrangeaboutit,hereallisstrange,allisstrangewhenyoucometothinkofit,no,it’scomingtothinkofitthatisstrange,amItosupposeIaminhabited,I can’t suppose anything, I have to go on, that’s what I’m doing, let otherssuppose, there must be others in other elsewheres, each one in his littleelsewhere,thiswordthatkeepscomingback,eachonesayingtohimself,whenthemomentcomes,themomenttosayit,Letotherssuppose,andsoon,soon,letothersdo this,othersdo that, if thereareany, thathelpsyouon, thathelpsyouforward, Ibelieve inprogress, Iknowhowtobelieve too, theymusthavetaught me believing too, no, no one ever taught me anything, I never learntanything, I’ve always been here, here therewas never anyone butme, never,always, me, no one, old slush to be churned everlastingly, now it’s slush, aminuteago itwasdust, itmusthaverained.Hemusthave travelled,hewhosevoiceitis,hemusthaveseen,withhiseyes,amanortwo,athingortwo,beenaloft,inthelight,orelseheardtales,travellersfoundhimandtoldhimtales,thatprovesmyinnocence,whosays,Thatprovesmyinnocence,hesays it,or theysayit,yes,theywhoreason,theywhobelieve,no,inthesingular,hewholived,orsawsomewhohad,hespeaksofme,asifIwerehe,asifIwerenothe,both,andasifIwereothers,oneafteranother,heistheafflicted,Iamfar,doyouhearhim,hesaysI’mfar,asifIwerehe,no,asifIwerenothe,forheisnotfar,heishere,it’shewhospeaks,hesaysit’sI,thenhesaysit’snot,Iamfar,doyouhearhim,heseeksmeIdon’tknowwhy,hedoesn’tknowwhy,hecallsme,hewantsmetocomeout,hethinksIcancomeout,hewantsmetobehe,oranother,letus be fair, hewantsme to rise up, up into him, or up into another, let us beimpartial,he thinkshe’scaughtme,he feelsme inhim, thenhesays I,as if Iwerehe,orinanother,letusbejust,thenhesaysMurphy,orMolloy,Iforget,asifIwereMalone,but theirday isdone,hewantsnonebuthimself, forme,hethinksit’shislastchance,hethinksthat,theytaughthimthinking,it’salwayshewhospeaks,Mercierneverspoke,Moranneverspoke,Ineverspoke,Iseemtospeak,that’sbecausehesaysIasifhewereI,Inearlybelievedhim,doyouhearhim,asifhewereI,Iwhoamfar,whocan’tmove,can’tbefound,butneithercan he, he can only talk, if that much, perhaps it’s not he, perhaps it’s amultitude,oneafteranother,whatconfusion,someonementionsconfusion,isit

a sin, all here is sin, you don’t knowwhy, you don’t knowwhose, you don’tknowagainstwhom,someonesaysyou,it’sthefaultofthepronouns,thereisnonameforme,nopronounforme,allthetroublecomesfromthat,that,it’sakindofpronountoo,itisn’tthateither,I’mnotthateither,letusleaveallthat,forgetaboutallthat,it’snotdifficult,ourconcern iswithsomeone,orourconcerniswithsomething,nowwe’regettingit,someoneorsomethingthatisnotthere,orthatisnotanywhere,orthatisthere,here,whynot,afterall,andourconcerniswith speakingof that, nowwe’ve got it, you don’t knowwhy,why youmustspeakof that,but there it is,youcan’tspeakof that,noonecanspeakof that,you speak of yourself, someone speaks of himself, that’s it, in the singular, asingleone,themanonduty,he,I,nomatter,themanondutyspeaksofhimself,it’snotthat,ofothers,it’snotthateither,hedoesn’tknow,howcouldheknow,whetherhehasspokenofthatornot,whenspeakingofhimself,whenspeakingofothers,whenspeakingofthings,howcanIknow,Ican’tknow,ifI’vespokenofhim,Icanonlyspeakofme,no,Ican’tspeakofanything,andyetIspeak,perhapsit’sofhim,I’llneverknow,howcouldIknow,whocouldknow,whoknowingcouldtellme,Idon’tknowwhoit’sallabout,that’sallIknow,no,Imustknowsomethingelse,theymusthavetaughtmesomething,it’sabouthimwhoknowsnothing,wantsnothing,candonothing, if it’spossibleyoucandonothingwhenyouwantnothing,whocannothear,cannotspeak,whoisI,whocannotbeI,ofwhomIcan’tspeak,ofwhomImustspeak,that’sallhypotheses,I said nothing, someone said nothing, it’s not a question of hypotheses, it’s aquestionofgoingon, itgoeson,hypothesesarelikeeverythingelse, theyhelpyouon,as if therewereneedofhelp, that’s right, impersonal,as if therewereanyneedofhelptogoonwithathingthatcan’tstop,andyetitwill,itwillstop,doyouhear,thevoicesaysitwillstop,someday,itsaysitwillstopanditsaysitwill never stop, fortunately I have no opinion,whatwould I have an opinionwith, with my mouth perhaps, if it’s mine, I don’t feel a mouth on me, thatmeansnothing,ifonlyIcouldfeelamouthonme,ifonlyIcouldfeelsomethingonme,I’lltry,ifIcan,Iknowit’snotI,that’sallIknow,IsayI,knowingit’snotI,Iamfar,far,whatdoesthatmean,far,noneedtobefar,perhapshe’shere,inmyarms,Idon’tfeelanyarmsonme,ifonlyIcouldfeelsomethingonme,itwouldbeastarting-point,astarting-point,ahifIcouldlaugh,Iknowwhatitis,theymusthave toldmewhat it is,but Ican’tdo it, theycan’thaveshownmehowtodoit,perhapsit’soneofthosegiftsthatcan’tbeacquired.Thesilence,awordonthesilence,inthesilence,that’stheworst,tospeakofsilence,thenlockmeup,locksomeoneup,thatistosay,whatisthattosay,calm,calm,I’mcalm,

I’mlockedup,I’minsomething,it’snotI,that’sallIknow,nomoreaboutthat,that is tosay,makeaplace,a littleworld, itwillberound, this timeitwillberound,it’snotcertain,lowofceiling,thickofwall,whylow,whythick,Idon’tknow,itisn’tcertain,itremainstobeseen,allremainstobeseen,alittleworld,tryandfindoutwhatit’slike,tryandguess,putsomeoneinit,seeksomeoneinit,andwhathe’slike,andhowhemanages,itwon’tbeI,nomatter,perhapsitwill,perhapsitwillbemyworld,possiblecoincidence,therewon’tbewindows,we’redonewithwindows, thesea refusedme, theskydidn’t seeme, Iwasn’tthere, and the summer evening air weighing on my eyelids, we must haveeyelids,wemusthaveeyeballs,it’spreferable,theymusthaveexplainedtome,someone must have explained to me, what it’s like, an eye, at the window,before thesea,before theearth,before thesky,at thewindow,against theair,opening,shutting,grey,black,grey,black,Imusthaveunderstood,Imusthavewantedit,wantedtheeye,formyown,Imusthavetried,allthethingsthey’vetoldme,allthethingsI’vetried,theycomeinusefulstill,whenIthinkofthem,thattoo,youmustgoonthinkingtoo,theoldthoughts, theycall thatthinking,it’s visions, shreds of old visions, that’s all you can see, a fewold pictures, awindow, what need had they to show me a window, saying, no, I forget, itdoesn’t come back to me, a window, saying, There are others, even morebeautiful,andtherest,walls,sky,man,likeMahood,alittlenature,toolongtogoover,tooforgotten,toolittleforgotten,wasitnecessary,butwasthathowithappened,whocanhavecomehere,thedevilperhaps,Icanthinkofnooneelse,it’sheshowedmeeverything,here,inthedark,andhowtospeak,andwhattosay,anda littlenature,anda fewnames,and theoutsideofmen, those inmyimage,whomImightresemble,andtheirwayof living, in rooms, insheds, incaverns, inwoods,orcomingandgoing,Iforget,andwhowentawayandleftme,knowing Iwas tempted,knowing Iwas lost,whether Isuccumbedornot,haveIsuccumbedornot,Idon’tknow,it’snotI,that’sallIknow,sincethatdayit’s not I any more, since that day there is no one any more, I must havesuccumbed.That’sallhypotheses,thathelpsyouforward,Ibelieveinprogress,Ibelieveinsilence,ahyes,afewwordsonthesilence,thenthelittleworld, thatwillbeenough,fortherestofeternity,you’dthinkitwasI,Ispeaking,Ihearing,Imakingplans,forthepassinghour,fortherestofeternity,whereasI’mfar,orinmyarmssomewhere,orstowedawaysomewhere,behindwalls,afewwordson the silence, then just one thingmore, just one space and someonewithin,perhaps,untiltheend,Ibelieveit,it’seveningalready,Icallthatevening,Iwishyoucould see it, Ibelieve it this evening, it’s announcedand Ibelieve it,you

announce, thenyou renounce, so it is, thathelpsyouon, thathelps the end tocome, eveningswhen there is an end, I speak of evening, someone speaks ofevening,perhapsit’sstillmorning,perhapsit’sstillnight,personallyIhavenoopinion.They loveeachother,marry, inorder to loveeachotherbetter,moreconveniently,hegoestothewars,hediesatthewars,sheweeps,withemotion,at having loved him, at having lost him, yep, marries again, in order to loveagain,moreconvenientlyagain,theyloveeachother,youloveasmanytimesasnecessary, asnecessary inorder tobehappy, he comesback, theother comesback,fromthewars,hedidn’tdieatthewarsafterall,shegoestothestation,tomeet him, he dies in the train, of emotion, at the thought of seeingher again,having her again, sheweeps,weeps again,with emotion again, at having losthimagain,yep,goesbacktothehouse,he’sdead,theotherisdead,themother-in-law takes him down, he hanged himself, with emotion, at the thought oflosing her, sheweeps,weeps louder, at having loved him, at having lost him,there’sastoryforyou,thatwastoteachmethenatureofemotion,that’scalledemotion,whatemotioncando,given favourableconditions,what lovecando,wellwell,sothat’semotion,that’slove,andtrains,thenatureoftrains,andthemeaningofyourbacktotheengine,andguards,stations,platforms,wars,love,heart-rendingcries, thatmustbe themother-in-law,her cries rend theheart asshetakesdownherson,orherson-in-law,Idon’tknow,itmustbeherson,sinceshe cries, and the door, the house-door is bolted,when she got back from thestation she found the house-door bolted, who bolted it, he the better to hanghimself, or the mother-in-law the better to take him down, or to prevent herdaughter-in-lawfromre-enteringthepremises,there’sastoryforyou,itmustbethedaughter-in-law,itisn’ttheson-in-lawandthedaughter,it’sthedaughter-in-lawandtheson,howIreasontobesurethisevening,itwastoteachmehowtoreason,itwastotemptmetogo,totheplacewhereyoucancometoanend,Imusthavebeenagoodpupiluptoapoint,Icouldn’tgetbeyondacertainpoint,Icanunderstandtheirannoyance,thiseveningIbegintounderstand,ohthere’snodanger, it’snotI, itwasn’t I, thedoor, it’s thedoor interestsme,awoodendoor,whoboltedthedoor,andforwhatpurpose,I’llneverknow,there’sastoryforyou,Ithoughttheywereover,perhapsit’sanewone,leppingfresh,isitthereturntotheworldoffable,no,justareminder,tomakemeregretwhatIhavelost,longtobeagainintheplaceIwasbanishedfrom,unfortunatelyitdoesn’tremindmeof 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 mespeakingofit,Iknewitwouldcome,Iemergefromittospeakofit,Istayinit

tospeakofit,ifit’sIwhospeak,andit’snot,Iactasifitwere,sometimesIactasifitwere,butatlength,wasIeverthereat length,alongstay,Iunderstandnothingaboutduration,Ican’tspeakofit,ohIknowIspeakofit,Isayneverandever,Ispeakofthefourseasonsandthedifferentpartsofthedayandnight,thenighthasnoparts, that’sbecauseyouareasleep, theseasonsmustbeverysimilar, perhaps it’s springtime now, that’s all words they taughtme,withoutmakingtheirmeaningcleartome,that’showIlearnttoreason,Iusethemall,allthewordstheyshowedme,therewerecolumnsofthem,ohthestrangeglowallofasudden,theywereonlists,withimagesopposite,Imusthaveforgottenthem,Imusthavemixedthemup,thesenamelessimagesIhave,theseimagelessnames,thesewindowsIshouldperhapsrathercalldoors,atleastbysomeothername,andthiswordmanwhichisperhapsnottherightoneforthethingIseewhenIhearit,butaninstant,anhour,andsoon,howcantheyberepresented,alife,howcouldthatbemadecleartome,here,inthedark,Icallthatthedark,perhapsit’sazure,blankwords,butIusethem,theykeepcomingback,allthosetheyshowedme,allthoseIremember,Ineedthemall,tobeabletogoon,it’salie, a scorewouldbeplenty, triedand trusty,unforgettable,nicelyvaried, thatwould be palette enough, I’d mix them, I’d vary them, that would be gamutenough,all thethingsI’ddoifIcould, ifIwished, ifIcouldwish,noneedtowish, that’s how itwill end, in heartrending cries, inarticulatemurmurs, to beinvented,asIgoalong,improvised,asIgroanalong,I’lllaugh,that’showitwillend,inachuckle,chuckchuck,ow,ha,pa,I’llpractise,nyum,hoo,plop,psss,nothingbutemotion,bingbang,that’sblows,ugh,pooh,whatelse,oooh,aaah,that’slove,enough,it’stiring,heehee,that’stheAbderite,no,theother,intheend,it’stheend,theendingend,it’sthesilence,afewgurglesonthesilence,thereal silence,not theonewhere Imacerateup to themouth,up to theear, thatcoversme,uncoversme,breatheswithme,likeacatwithamouse, thatof thedrowned,I’vedrowned,more thanonce, itwasn’t I,suffocated,set fire tome,thumped onmy headwithwood and iron, it wasn’t I, therewas no head, nowood,noiron,Ididn’tdoanythingtome,Ididn’tdoanythingtoanyone,noonedid anything tome, there is no one, I’ve looked, no one butme, no, notmeeither,I’velookedeverywhere,theremustbesomeone,thevoicemustbelongtosomeone,I’venoobjection,whatitwantsIwant,Iamit,I’vesaidso,itsaysso,fromtimetotimeitsaysso,thenitsaysnot,I’venoobjection,Iwant it togosilent, itwants to go silent, it can’t, it does for a second, then it starts again,that’snottherealsilence,itsaysthat’snottherealsilence,whatcanbesaidoftherealsilence,Idon’tknow,thatIdon’tknowwhatitis,thatthereisnosuch

thing, thatperhapsthereissucha thing,yes, thatperhapsthereis,somewhere,I’llneverknow.Butwhenitfaltersandwhenitstops,butitfalterseveryinstant,itstopseveryinstant,yes,butwhenitstopsforagoodfewmoments,agoodfewmoments,whatareagoodfewmoments,what then,murmurs, then itmustbemurmurs, and listening, someone listening, no need of an ear, no need of amouth, thevoice listens, aswhen it speaks, listens to its silence, thatmakes amurmur,thatmakesavoice,asmallvoice,thesamevoiceonlysmall,itsticksinthethroat,there’sthethroatagain,there’sthemouthagain,itfillstheear,there’stheearagain,thenIvomit,someonevomits,someonestartsvomitingagain,thatmustbehow it happens, I haveno explanations tooffer, none todemand, thecommawillcomewhere I’lldrownforgood, then thesilence, Ibelieve it thisevening, still this evening, how it drags on, I’ve no objection, perhaps it’sspringtime, violets, no, that’s autumn, there’s a time for everything, for thethingsthatpass,thethingsthatend,theycouldnevergetmetounderstandthat,thethingsthatstir,depart,return,a lightchanging, theycouldnevergetme toseethat,anddeathintothebargain,avoicedying,that’sagoodone,silenceatlast,notamurmur,noair,noonelistening,notforthelikesofme,amen,onwego. Enormous prison, like a hundred thousand cathedrals, never anything elseanymore,fromthistimeforth,andinit,somewhere,perhaps,riveted,tiny,theprisoner,howcanhebefound,howfalsethisspaceis,whatfalsenessinstantly,towant to draw that roundyou, towant to put a being there, a cellwould beplenty,ifIgaveup,ifonlyIcouldgiveup,beforebeginning,beforebeginningagain,whatbreathlessness,that’sright,ejaculations,thathelpsyouon,thatputsoff thefatalhour,no, thereverse, Idon’tknow,startagain, in this immensity,thisobscurity,gothroughthemotionsofstartingagain,youwhocan’tstir,youwho never started, you the who, go through the motions, what motions, youcan’tstir,youlaunchyourvoice, itdiesawayin thevault, itcalls thatavault,perhapsit’stheabyss,thosearewords,itspeaksofaprison,I’venoobjection,vastenough forawholepeople, formealone,orwaiting forme, I’llgo therenow, I’ll try andgo there now, I can’t stir, I’m there already, Imust be therealready,perhapsI’mnotalone,perhapsawholepeopleishere,andthevoiceitsvoice,comingtomefitfully,wewouldhavelived,beenfreeamoment,nowwetalkaboutit,eachonetohimself,eachoneoutloudforhimself,andwelisten,awholepeople, talkingand listening, all together, thatwouldex,no, I’malone,perhapsthefirst,orperhapsthelast,talkingalone,listeningalone,alonealone,the others are gone, they have been stilled, their voices stilled, their listeningstilled,onebyone,ateachnew-coming,anotherwillcome,Iwon’tbethelast,

I’llbewiththeothers,I’llbeasgone,inthesilence,itwon’tbeI,it’snotI,I’mnotthereyet,I’llgotherenow,I’lltryandgotherenow,nousetrying,Iwaitformyturn,myturntogothere,myturntotalkthere,myturntolistenthere,myturn to wait there for my turn to go, to be as gone, it’s unending, it will beunending, gonewhere,where do you go from there, youmust go somewhereelse,waitsomewhereelse,foryourturntogoagain,andsoon,awholepeople,orIalone,andcomeback,andbeginagain,no,goon,goonagain,it’sacircuit,alongcircuit,Iknowitwell,Imustknowitwell,it’salie,Ican’tstir,Ihaven’tstirred,Ilaunchthevoice,Ihearavoice,thereisnowherebuthere,therearenottwoplaces,therearenottwoprisons,it’smyparlour,it’saparlour,whereIwaitfor nothing, I don’t know where it is, I don’t know what it’s like, that’s nobusinessofmine,Idon’tknowifit’sbig,orifit’ssmall,orifit’sclosed,ifit’sopen, that’s right, reiterate, that helps you on, open onwhat, there is nothingelse,onlyit,openonthevoid,openonthenothing,I’venoobjection,thosearewords,openonthesilence,lookingoutonthesilence,straightout,whynot,allthis timeon thebrinkof silence, Iknew it,ona rock, lashed toa rock, in themidstofsilence,itsgreatswellrearstowardsme,I’mstreamingwithit, it’sanimage,thosearewords, it’sabody,it’snotI,Iknewitwouldn’tbeI, I’mnotoutside,I’minside,I’minsomething,I’mshutup,thesilenceisoutside,outside,inside,thereisnothingbuthere,andthesilenceoutside,nothingbutthisvoiceand the silence all round, no need of walls, yes, wemust have walls, I needwalls, good and thick, I need aprison, Iwas right, formealone, I’ll go therenow,I’llputmeinit,I’mtherealready,I’llstartlookingformenow,I’mtheresomewhere,itwon’tbeI,nomatter,I’llsayit’sI,perhapsitwillbeI,perhapsthat’sallthey’rewaitingfor,theretheyareagain,togivemequittance,waitingfor me to say I’m someone, to say I’m somewhere, to put me out, into thesilence, I see nothing, it’s because there is nothing, or it’s because I have noeyes,orboth,thatmakesthreepossibilities,tochoosefrom,butdoIreallyseenothing,it’snotthemomenttotellalie,buthowcanyounottellalie,whatanidea,avoicelikethis,whocancheckit,ittrieseverything,it’sblind,itseeksmeblindly,inthedark,itseeksamouth,toenterinto,whocanqueryit,thereisnoother,you’dneedahead,you’dneedthings,Idon’tknow,IlooktoooftenasifIknew,it’sthevoicedoesthat,itgoesallknowing,tomakemethinkIknow,tomakemethinkit’smine, ithasno interest ineyes, itsaysIhavenone,or thattheyarenousetome,thenitspeaksoftears,thenitspeaksofgleams,itistrulyataloss,gleams,yes,far,ornear,distances,youknow,measurements,enoughsaid,gleams,asatdawn, thendying,asat evening,or flaringup, theydo that

too,blazeupmoredazzlingthansnow,forasecond,that’sshort,thenfizzleout,that’strueenough,ifyoulike,oneforgets,Iforget,IsayIseenothing,orIsayit’s all inmyhead, as if I felt a head onme, that’s all hypotheses, lies, thesegleamstoo,theyweretosaveme,theyweretodevourme,thatcametonothing,Iseenothing,eitherbecauseofthisorelseonaccountofthat,andtheseimagesatwhich theywateredme, likeacamel,before thedesert, Idon’tknow,morelies,justforthefunofit,fun,whatfunwe’vehad,whatfunofit,alllies,that’ssoonsaid,youmustsaysoon,it’stheregulations.Theplace,I’llmakeitallthesame, I’llmake it inmyhead, I’lldraw itoutofmymemory, I’llgather it allaboutme,I’llmakemyselfahead, I’llmakemyselfamemory, Ihaveonly tolisten,thevoicewilltellmeeverything,tellittomeagain,everythingIneed,indribsanddrabs,breathless,it’slikeaconfession,alastconfession,youthinkit’sfinished,thenitstartsoffagain,thereweresomanysins,thememoryissobad,thewordsdon’tcome,thewordsfail,thebreathfails,no,it’ssomethingelse,it’sanindictment,adyingvoiceaccusing,accusingme,youmustaccusesomeone,aculprit is indispensable, it speaksofmysins, it speaksofmyhead, it says it’smine, it says that I repent, that Iwant to be punished, better than I am, that Iwant to go, givemyself up, a victim is essential, I have only to listen, itwillshowmemyhiding-place,whatit’slike,wherethedooris,ifthere’sadoor,andwhereaboutsIaminit,andwhatliesbetweenus,howthelandlies,whatkindofcountry,whetherit’ssea,orwhetherit’smountain,andthewaytotake,sothatImaygo,makemyescape,givemyselfup,cometotheplacewheretheaxefalls,withoutfurtherceremony,onallwhocomefromhere,I’mnotthefirst,Iwon’tbethefirst,itwillbestmeintheend,ithasbestedbetterthanme,itwilltellmewhattodo,inordertorise,move,actlikeabodyendowedwithdespair,that’show I reason, that’s how I hearmyself reasoning, all lies, it’s notme they’recalling, notme they’re talking about, it’s not yetmy turn, it’s someone else’sturn, that’s why I can’t stir, that’s why I don’t feel a body on me, I’m notsufferingenoughyet,it’snotyetmyturn,notsufferingenoughtobeabletostir,tohaveabody, completewithhead, tobeable tounderstand, tohaveeyes tolighttheway,Imerelyhear,withoutunderstanding,withoutbeingabletoprofitbyit,bywhatIhear,todowhat,toriseandgoandbedonewithhearing,Idon’theareverything,thatmustbeit,theimportantthingsescapeme,it’snotmyturn,the topographical and anatomical information inparticular is lost onme, no, Iheareverything,whatdifferencedoesitmake,themomentit’snotmyturn,myturntounderstand,myturntolive,myturnofthelife-screw,itcallsthatliving,the space of the way from here to the door, it’s all there, in what I hear,

somewhere,ifallhasbeensaid,allthislongtime,allmusthavebeensaid,butit’s notmy turn to know what, to know what I am, where I am, and what Ishould do to stop being it, to stop being there, that’s coherent, so as to beanother, no, the same, I don’t know, depart into life, travel the road, find thedoor,findtheaxe,perhapsit’sacord,fortheneck,forthethroat,forthecords,or fingers, I’ll have eyes, I’ll see fingers, itwill be the silence, perhaps it’s adrop,findthedoor,openthedoor,drop,intothesilence,itwon’tbeI,I’llstayhere,orthere,morelikelythere,itwillneverbeI,that’sallIknow,it’sallbeendonealready,saidandsaidagain,thedeparture,thebodythatrises,theway,incolour, thearrival, thedoor thatopens,closesagain, itwasnever I, I’veneverstirred,I’velistened,Imusthavespoken,whydenyit,whynotadmitit,afterall,I deny nothing, I admit nothing, I saywhat I hear, I hearwhat I say, I don’tknow,oneortheother,orboth,thatmakesthreepossibilities,pickyourfancy,all these stories about travellers, these stories about paralytics, all aremine, Imustbeextremelyold,orit’smemoryplayingtricks,ifonlyIknewifI’velived,ifIlive,ifI’lllive,thatwouldsimplifyeverything,impossibletofindout,that’swhereyou’rebuggered,Ihaven’tstirred,that’sallIknow,no,Iknowsomethingelse, it’s not I, I always forget that, I resume, youmust resume, never stirredfromhere,neverstoppedtellingstories,tomyself,hardlyhearingthem,hearingsomethingelse, listening for somethingelse,wonderingnowand thenwhere Igot them from,was I in the landof the living,were they inmine, andwhere,wheredoIstorethem,inmyhead,Idon’tfeelaheadonme,andwhatdoItellthemwith,withmymouth,sameremark,andwhatdoIhearthemwith,andsoon,theoldrigmarole,itcan’tbeI,orit’sbecauseIpaynoheed,it’ssuchanoldhabit, I do itwithout heeding, or as if Iwere somewhere else, there I am faragain, there I am the absentee again, it’s his turn again now, he who neitherspeaksnorlistens,whohasneitherbodynorsoul,it’ssomethingelsehehas,hemusthave something,hemustbe somewhere, he ismadeof silence, there’s aprettyanalysis,he’sinthesilence,he’stheonetobesought,theonetobe,theonetobespokenof,theonetospeak,buthecan’tspeak,thenIcouldstop,I’dbehe,I’dbethesilence,I’dbebackinthesilence,we’dbereunited,hisstorythestorytobetold,buthehasnostory,hehasn’tbeeninstory,it’snotcertain,he’s in his own story, unimaginable, unspeakable, that doesn’t matter, theattemptmustbemade, in theoldstories incomprehensiblymine, to findhis, itmust be there somewhere, it must have been mine, before being his, I’llrecogniseit,intheendI’llrecogniseit,thestoryofthesilencethatheneverleft,thatIshouldneverhaveleft,thatImayneverfindagain,thatImayfindagain,

then it will be he, it will be I, it will be the place, the silence, the end, thebeginning, thebeginningagain,howcan I say it, that’sallwords, they’reall Ihave,andnotmanyofthem,thewordsfail,thevoicefails,sobeit,Iknowthatwell,itwillbethesilence,fullofmurmurs,distantcries,theusualsilence,spentlistening,spentwaiting,waitingforthevoice,thecriesabate,likeallcries,thatis tosaytheystop, themurmurscease, theygiveup, thevoicebeginsagain, itbegins tryingagain,quicknowbefore there isnone left,novoice left,nothingleft but the core ofmurmurs, distant cries, quick now and try again,with thewords that remain, trywhat, I don’t know, I’ve forgotten, it doesn’tmatter, Ineverknew,tohavethemcarrymeintomystory,thewordsthatremain,myoldstory,whichI’veforgotten,farfromhere, through thenoise, through thedoor,intothesilence,thatmustbeit, it’stoolate,perhapsit’s toolate,perhapstheyhave,howwouldIknow,inthesilenceyoudon’tknow,perhapsit’s thedoor,perhaps I’m at the door, that would surprise me, perhaps it’s I, perhapssomewhereorother itwas I, Icandepart,all this time I’ve journeyedwithoutknowingit,it’sInowatthedoor,whatdoor,what’sadoordoinghere,it’sthelastwords, the true last,or it’s themurmurs, themurmursarecoming, Iknowthatwell,no,noteventhat,youtalkofmurmurs,distantcries,aslongasyoucantalk,youtalkofthembeforeandyoutalkofthemafter,morelies,itwillbethesilence, the one that doesn’t last, spent listening, spent waiting, for it to bebroken,forthevoicetobreakit,perhapsthere’snoother,Idon’tknow,it’snotworthhaving,that’sallIknow,it’snotI,that’sallIknow,it’snotmine,it’stheonlyoneIeverhad,that’salie,Imusthavehadtheother,theonethatlasts,butitdidn’tlast,Idon’tunderstand,thatistosayitdid,itstilllasts,I’mstillinit,Ileftmyselfbehindinit,I’mwaitingformethere,no,thereyoudon’twait,youdon’tlisten,Idon’tknow,perhapsit’sadream,alladream,thatwouldsurpriseme,I’llwake,inthesilence,andneversleepagain,itwillbeI,ordream,dreamagain,dreamofasilence,adreamsilence,fullofmurmurs,Idon’tknow,that’sallwords,neverwake,allwords,there’snothingelse,youmustgoon,that’sallI know, they’regoing to stop, I know thatwell, I can feel it, they’re going toabandonme,itwillbethesilence,foramoment,agoodfewmoments,oritwillbemine,thelastingone,thatdidn’tlast,thatstilllasts,itwillbeI,youmustgoon, I can’tgoon,youmustgoon, I’llgoon,youmust saywords,as longasthereareany,untiltheyfindme,untiltheysayme,strangepain,strangesin,youmust go on, perhaps it’s done already, perhaps they have said me already,perhapstheyhavecarriedmetothethresholdofmystory,beforethedoor thatopensonmystory,thatwouldsurpriseme,ifitopens,itwillbeI,itwillbethe

silence, where I am, I don’t know, I’ll never know, in the silence you don’tknow,youmustgoon,Ican’tgoon,I’llgoon.

AbouttheAuthor

SamuelBeckettwasborninDublinin1906.HewaseducatedatPortoraRoyalSchoolandTrinityCollege,Dublin,wherehegraduatedin1927.Hismadehispoetry debut in 1930 withWhoroscope and followed it with essays and twonovelsbeforeWorldWarTwo.Hewroteoneofhismostfamousplays,WaitingforGodot, in 1949 but it wasn’t published in English until 1954.Waiting forGodot brought Beckett international fame and firmly established him as aleading figure in the Theatre of the Absurd. He received the Nobel Prize forLiteraturein1961.Beckettcontinuedtowriteprolificallyforradio,TVandthetheatreuntilhisdeathin1989.

AbouttheEditor

Steven Connor is Professor of Modern Literature and Theory at BirkbeckCollegeLondonandtheauthorofSamuelBeckett:Repetition,TheoryandTextandnumerousessaysandarticlesonBeckett.

TitlesintheSamuelBeckettseries

ENDGAME

PrefacebyRónánMcDonald

COMPANY/ILLSEENILLSAID/WORSTWARDHO/STRINGSSTILL

EditedbyDirkVanHulle

KRAPP’�LASTTAPEANDOTHERSHORTERPLAYS

PrefacebyS.E.Gontarski

MURPHY

EditedbyJ.C.C.Mays

WATT

EditedbyC.J.Ackerley

ALLTHATFALLANDOTHERPLAYSFORRADIOANDSCREEN

PrefaceandNotesbyEverettFrost

MOLLOY

EditedbyShaneWeller

HOWITIS

EditedbyÉdouardMagessaO’Reilly

THEEXPELLED/THECALMATIVE/THEEND&FIRSTLOVE

EditedbyChristopherRicks

SELECTEDPOEMS,1930–1989

EditedbyDavidWheatley

WAITINGFORGODOT

PrefacebyMaryBryden

MOREPRICKSTHANKICKS

EditedbyCassandraNelson

malonedies

EditedbyPeterBoxall

THEUNNAMABLE

EditedbyStevenConnor

HAPPYDAYS

PrefacebyJamesKnowlson

TEXTSFORNOTHINGandOtherShorterProse,1950–1976

EditedbyMarkNixon

MERCIERANDCAMIER

EditedbySeánKennedy

Copyright

OriginallypublishedasL’InnommablebyLesÉditionsdeMinuit,Paris,1953

FirstpublishedintheUnitedStatesin1958byGrovePress.CollectedinThreeNovels(GrovePress1958;OlympiaPress1959).

FirstpublishedinGreatBritainbyCalderandBoyarsin1960

Thiseditionfirstpublishedin2010byFaberandFaberLtdBloomsburyHouse

74–77GreatRussellStreetLondonWC1B3DA

Thisebookeditionfirstpublishedin2012

Allrightsreserved©TheEstateofSamuelBeckett,2010

Preface©StevenConnor,2010

TherightofSamuelBecketttobeidentifiedasauthorofthisworkhasbeenassertedinaccordancewithSection77oftheCopyright,DesignsandPatentsAct1988

TherightofStevenConnortobeidentifiedaseditorofthisworkhasbeenassertedinaccordancewithSection77oftheCopyright,DesignsandPatentsAct1988

Thisebookiscopyrightmaterialandmustnotbecopied,reproduced,transferred,distributed,leased,licensedorpubliclyperformedorusedinanywayexceptasspecificallypermittedinwritingbythepublishers,asallowedunderthetermsandconditionsunderwhichitwaspurchasedorasstrictly

permittedbyapplicablecopyrightlaw.Anyunauthoriseddistributionoruseofthistextmaybeadirectinfringementoftheauthor’sandpublisher’srights,andthoseresponsiblemaybeliableinlaw

accordingly

ISBN978–0–571–26692–0