The One Before

The One Before

Earlier, others could. They would wet, slowly, in the kitchen, in the afternoon, in the winter, the cookie, soaking it, and raise, afterward, their hands, in a single movement, to their mouths, they would bite it and leave, for a moment, the sugared dough on the tip of their tongues, so that from it, from its dissolution, like dew, memory would rise, they would chew it slowly, and now suddenly they would be outside themselves, in another place, clinging to, for as long as there remained, in the first place, the tongue, the cookie, the steaming tea, the years: they would wet, in the kitchen, in the winter, the cookie in the cup of tea, and they knew, immediately, when they tasted it, that they were full, inside of something and carrying, inside, something, that they had, in other years, because there were years, abandoned, outside, in the world, something that could be, in one way or another, so to speak, recovered, and that there was, therefore, somewhere, what they called or what they believed ought to be — isn’t it? — a world. And now, I bring to my mouth, for the second time, the cookie soaked in tea and from it I take, tasting it, nothing, what is called nothing. I soak the cookie in the cup of tea, in the kitchen, in the winter, and raise my hand, quickly, to my mouth, I leave the sugared dough, warm, on the tip of my tongue, for a moment, and I begin to chew, slowly, and now that I am swallowing, now that there is not even a trace of flavor, I know, definitively, that I take nothing, absolutely nothing, what is called nothing. Now there is nothing, not even a trace, not even a memory of flavor: nothing. The florescent light, flickering imperceptibly, plunges into and pulls out from darkness, alternately, in the afternoon, the kitchen. I stand, with the cup in my hand, and step out into the blue semidarkness. It is cold and scintillating. The stairs are there, bare, going up to the terrace. Now I am moving forward, in the blue air, on the terrace, and in the blue semidarkness, up above, in the sky, is the moon. The great yellow circle begins, so to speak, to sparkle. And in the blue semidarkness, from the center of the open terrace, the roofs, the terraces, the illuminated windows, the apartment buildings, the six o’clock murmur that rises, monotonous, from the streets, as I go, with the cup in my hand, toward my room. Now I am sitting before the table, the empty cup beside my hands resting on top of the green folder where it says, in red ink, in large, printed letters, PARANATELLON. I am immobile: one hand resting on the other, on top of the closed green folder, where it says, in red ink, in irregular, hurried, large printed letters, PARANATELLON. The empty cup to one side, next to the folder, against a background of piled-up books, of papers, and a glass full of pencils, fountain pens, ballpoints. And on the yellow wall, raising my head, framed by four black bars, inside four wide white margins, the Wheatfield with Crows. I think of nothing, what is called nothing. And I remember nothing: no vapor rises — from where? — nothing. Nor am I anywhere else: it is always, now, the same, cold, with the piled-up books, and the papers, and the Wheatfield with Crows, place. I am existing, always, now, in the same, with the empty cup and my hands crossed over the PARANATELLON, on the table, place. And now I am standing, I am going through the terrace, black now, among the light fixtures that sparkle, in a circle, around me, from the roofs and the windows and the terraces that have been erased, seeing the round, cold, hard moon that shines, unwavering, in the sky. In the sky at seven, in winter, is, cold, round, shining unwaveringly, I have said, the moon. And I have said that earlier, others could, they would wet, slowly, in the afternoon, in the kitchen, in the winter, the cookie, and would raise, afterward, their hands, from the cup of tea to their mouths, leaving the sugared dough, for a moment, on the tip of their tongues, and immediately — and from where? — there ascended, like a vapor, memory. And I have said: that I would leave the kitchen behind, I would enter the blue air and go up, the cup in my hand, the stairs. With the cup in my hand: the stairs. There was, in the sky at six, hard, brilliant, unwavering, the moon. And I have said: that the florescent, light, flickering imperceptibly, would plunge into and pull out, alternately, entirely, from the darkness, the kitchen. Now I am existing at the edge of the staircase, in the cold, dark air of eight: and now I am existing on the last stair, I am existing on the second to last stair, I am existing on the third to last stair now. On the fourth to last now. And now I am existing on the first stair. I have said that others, in another, so to speak, place, would wet, for a moment, in the cup of tea, the cookie, would bring it, in an instant, to their mouths, letting it rest for a moment on the tip of their tongues, and would begin, then, to drain, so to speak, from the dense block, years, because there would have been, still, for them, or in them, years, and I have said that I used to be going up, afterward, with the cup in my hand, the stairs, that I used to be crossing, in the blue semidarkness, the terrace, that I looked at, alternately, the cold moon, the clear lights, whirling, immobile, in place, around the roofs, the black patios, the terraces, and that, later, I used to be looking at the yellow, blue, green, black, grayish stains, framed, with a lot of white, inside black bars, that before a disorderly background of papers, of books, there used to be the empty cup, my hands crossed over the green folder, beneath the hurried, irregular letters in red ink, that said PARANATELLON, that I used to be existing, first on the last stair, on the second to last, on the third to last, on the fourth to last, on the first stair, on the patio, going again, with the empty cup, to the kitchen that is plunged into and pulled out, again and again, in place, imperceptibly, like everything else, from the darkness. The flow from the tap falls upon the empty cup, and the steaming water spills over. From the living room come the television’s peculiar voices, and amplifying them, from below, or more precisely from above, or behind, if you will, in bursts, the music. As one. The cold, fibrous meat and the bread from this morning, mashed, mixed, pass, in pieces, down my throat. The black wine dissolves them and pushes them down, toward the bottom. They must be, in the darkness, one after the other, descending. They must be depositing on the bottom, where mechanisms must have started, already, to work. And when I stand, the food, which is already a memory, stays, in another, so to speak, and in the one where I am still existing, and that should, nevertheless, be the same, place. Now I am existing on the first stair, in the darkness, in the cold. Now I am existing on the second stair. On the third stair now. Now I am existing on the second to last stair. Now I was or I am still existing on the first stair and I was or I am still existing on the first and the second stair and I was or I am existing, now, on the third stair, and I was or I am existing now on the first and on the second and on the fourth and on the seventh and on the third to last and on the last stair. No. I was first on the first stair, then I was on the second, then I was on the third stair, then I was on the third to last, then I was on the second to last, and now I am existing on the last stair. No. I was and I am existing. I was, I was in the midst of being, I am existing, I am in the midst of being, and I am now, having been being, being now on the empty blue terrace, over which shines, round, cold, the moon. Immobile, in the sky, smooth, erasing, around it, the stars, and before me, and refractory, in its way, flat, imaginary, just a name, a word, the moon. In the icy bedroom, I turn on the light. On the table, against a disorganized background of books, of papers, to one side of the glass full of pencils, of ballpoint pens, red, black, green, blue, the green folder, closed, on whose cover I am writing, in large, hurried, nervous letters, with red ink, PARANATELLON. And on the wall, above the desk, with a lot of white around it, behind glass, the Wheatfield—but is it really a field? Is it really of wheat? — with Crows, and one could, honestly, ask oneself if they are, honestly, crows. They are, more accurately, stains, chaotic blue, yellow, green, black, stains that get more chaotic the closer one gets, stains, a stain, imprecise, that is called a stain, and just as well, because otherwise it would be impossible to know what is, or is not, part of everything: a limit. And the flame of the match I bring, carefully, toward the cigarette hanging from my lips, undulates, a stain, yellow and blue, mobile, and stretches, then re-forms, when I blow on it, several times, before it goes out. The smoke rises, in the bedroom, immobile. It continues, so to speak, to diffuse. In the illuminated air, arabesques and engravings, and a fine vapor, grayish now, hang suspended, especially around the lamp. Down below they must be hearing, in the living room, the television’s peculiar voices, and behind them, and below, or around, if you will, intermittent, the music. Intermittent, the television’s peculiar voices, they must be hearing, down below, in the living room, that is another, with the flickering bluish light, the two of them sitting in the chairs since the afternoon, in the semidarkness, place. As, into the ashtray, on the table, I tap my cigarette, the smoke makes everything tremble, coming apart. Because earlier, others, so to speak, could: from a round, unpolished face, with a dimple, just one, on the right cheek, from eyes, and from a forehead where black hair, brushed back, springs forth, from the wide mouth, open, or closed, they were able, projecting out, to take some signal, some message, some evidence or, even better, a certainty, like, so to speak, a diamond in the rough. From one signal to the next, from a message, or from a certainty, they would cast out, so to speak, lines, and they would put down, in the world, like a mother giving birth, into space, solid, visible, external, or like a dove, in the air, flying, imaginary, in the emptiness, irrefutable, a construction that would serve: a measurement that, simply by existing, would slice up, take apart, classifying, dividing into front, back, after, before, above, below, now, the vague, wandering, continuous stain, identical at every point, without a center, and darker, less defined, without a limit. No message, for me, from this dimple, that appears, with laughter, alone, on the right cheek, no certainty to take: nothing. And the smoke from the cigarette that I take, at this moment, from between my lips, rises, deliberately, intact, toward the ceiling. There should be being around me — illuminated, cold, the straight and deserted streets that intersect every hundred yards, constant — the city. Around me, concentric, squeezing me, like rings, the throng of houses, in one of whose rooms, in each, the same image flickers, bluish, errantly brushing the expressionless, empty faces, changing, organized, manifest, on the television: clusters of given worlds, inside of one, more arduous, that never manifests. They must be about to be, as, toward the ceiling, deliberately, the blue smoke rises, around me, undivided, the city, like a wagon, so to speak, traveling — on what road? and toward what? — in black space. They must be hearing, in each room, in the semidarkness, the voices, and above, or behind, intermittent, the music. The same, for each one, and different, for all the others, and just one, and the same one, for no one, with every one and each one of the rooms, and every one and each one of the steely lights flickering, place: clusters of given worlds, the houses, the trees, the terraces, the streets that intersect every hundred yards, the buildings bleached, like bones, by the moon, the black parks, the rivers, the dirty bars, still open, the murky silhouettes of the last passersby who become easier to make out as they cross, diagonally, below the hanging streetlight, at the corner, the occasional buses, half empty, that, illuminated, go roaring down the avenues, the glass of their windows clouded over with frost, the trash bins waiting, in the cold, for morning, the cars that can be heard suddenly, far away, the streets of the city center, more brilliant, for a moment, than the others, the entire stony collection set inside another, more arduous, that never manifests. And my hand, stubbing out, in the ashtray, on the table, the cigarette, shakes itself out, naked, rough, the skin full of cracks, the nails smooth, pink, trimmed, the hand that has touched, again and again — and when? — with its wrinkled fingers, the dimple, the hand that, having touched the dimple, again and again, has touched, so to speak, nothing, has taken, from the contact, nothing, neither experience, nor certainty, nor a message, nor a sign, nor a memory: nothing. Nothing, unless it might be, fluctuating, the belief that something, slightly higher up, on my forehead and behind it, imaginatively, bottomless, black, flashes, sometimes, from certain bodies, fleetingly, emotions, memories, pleasure, desire, despair, hunger. Nothing that would fall outside of those galaxies, outside of the huge black space without form, without feeling, without direction, with nothing but the wandering ebb and flow, from those phosphorescent flashes, from that brilliance that streaks past, leaving behind a burning tail that is erased, gradually, in time, by the emptiness, or that emerge, from the bottom, if there is, so to speak, a bottom, that sparkle, for a moment, and then, in the same silence, with the same deliberation, without leaving a trace, fade away, flickers of red, green, yellow, wandering violet, white, whose message no one, though they might scrutinize, attentively, that stellar map, can, so to speak, capture — because they say, and there can be said about them, nothing and nothing. The glimmers that sometimes flash, hurriedly, unexpectedly, outside, like sighs, like a voice, like laughter, do not come, perhaps, from that swamp, from that stain. They come, simply, from outside, from the membrane that separates out, so to speak, from the infinite, the real. My hand, which has been known to pass, in other times, without leaving or receiving a trace, comes from the dimple and passes, warm, over my face. For a moment, everything is erased: the yellow wall, the table with the ashtray and the books, with the green folder on which must be written, in red, irregular printed letters, PARANATELLON, the stains crisscrossed with black, with white, the blue, yellow, black stains, the floating smoke, the light, the bookshelf. Everything in the galaxy is confused, startled, and remains trembling for a moment when my hand slides along, gripping at, the membrane. And as my hand heads slowly, to reunite, over my abdomen, with its mate, the galaxy, the black space, gradually stills, while from the other side of the membrane appears, further on, the desk, the pile of books behind, against the wall, the glass with the pencils, the folder on which I am writing, in large printed letters, with red ink, hurried and irregular, PARANATELLON. I was and I am about to be and I am about to be about to be — in large printed letters, PARANATELLON. And now I am holding, again, in my hands, the green folder on which is written, in red ink, in large, irregular letters, hurriedly printed, PARANATELLON. And now I am putting down, again, onto the desk — without opening it? — the folder. There it is, the cold bedroom, flickering, in which each thing is, and I myself am, in the same, coming and going from somewhere even in its apparent repose, place. In the cold bedroom, flickering, there is a bed, a green desk, a folder, books, papers piled up behind, a bookshelf, flickering, coming into and going out of, as you might say, something, in the same, always, apparently, place. There they are: the bookshelf, the folder, the chair, my knees, the ashtray, the door, mute, always in the same, with the Wheatfield with Crows and the light softly veiled by the smoke, flickering, place. They say, you might say, nothing. Questioning: questioning, in order, one at a time, or all together, everything, questioning the desk, the folder, questioning the newspaper with the two blurry photographs that say, or seem to want to say, that is to say, nothing, questioning the bed, questioning the chair, the light, the bookshelf, questioning, again and again, the voices that spoke, the expressionless faces, the memories that my eyes, raising up, seem to go looking for — where? — and then, again, the newspaper, the two photographs, blurry, reproduced, at once, sixty-two thousand times, and then again the expressionless faces, the voices, my eyes raising up or darting from side to side, as if they were searching, outside, around, like the one who blows on a cookie in a cup of tea and brings it afterward to his mouth, for the dew, the vapor, the image, questioning the dimple, to say, so to speak, and once and for all, something, questioning the table, the plate, questioning the chair, questioning the rising and setting of the sun, the rivers, the summer, questioning the leaves of books and the leaves of trees, the plains, the sand, testing, definitively, again, to see if something says, so to speak, something, questioning what is always, and since always has been, the same, indefinite, huge, with no borders to flow over or anything beyond those borders into which to overflow, fixed, neutral, flickering, place. Blurry, the two photographs, sixty-two thousand times, ubiquitous, are, nevertheless, nothing. They show nothing. Some confused stains, black, gray, white, that seem to be a desk, a chair behind, a wall, and between the desk and the wall, in the dark stains making up the floor, the stain, slightly darker, of a body, crumpled, face down, while there is still visible, below the dark stain of hair, a little gray stain, irregular, the face: the profile, its mouth open. And then, below, the second, a white stain: the wall. And upon the white stain, four — or five? — dark little stains, somewhere between gray and black: the bullets? — and that is, or would seem to be, from all the rest, all. Questioning, still questioning: the desk, the chair, questioning the four — or five — little stains somewhere between gray and black, on the wall, questioning the body fallen and crumpled, questioning the open mouth, the head, questioning day and night, and again the dimple, the green folder, the wall, questioning the trees, the leaves on the trees, questioning the streets, the white, vacuous faces, expressionless, to see, once more, if it is possible to say, about oneself or about anything, anything. Anything about the full, waving expanse, intersected, continuous, entering and exiting, again and again, the black bath, death, resurrection, resurrected death, and again death and again resurrection, adrift, moving from and moving toward nowhere, trembling, tremblingly present, to be seen, touched, heard, breaths that are clearly here and yet which come, the table, the desk, the dimple, the body fallen and fearful, the rising and setting of the sun, the bookcase, from what world? Floating, adrift, passing by, reappearing, disintegrating, crystallizing, in an arduous, dazzling, continuous wave. Now I am lighting a cigarette, the flame rising, after a tiny explosion, toward my mouth, and the smoke floats adrift, passing, reappearing, disintegrating, crystallizing in an arduous, dazzling, continuous wave. On the black head of the match which I hold upright, between my thumb and index finger, the orange flame waves, changes, and continues to be, if you like, the same, it twists, it waves, toward the left, toward the right, straight up, it winds around itself, slowly, on the wooden tip of the match, blackening it, consuming it, the flame that now descends toward my fingers, just as, above, the black wooden tip folds, breaks into pieces and yet does not, yet, crumble, the black tip breaks, at last, in two, when the flame reaches my fingers, provoking a hurried shake of my hand, whose movement, violent, repeated, puts it out. On my light gray pants, the black ash, its hard head still intact. While the thumb and forefinger of my left hand hold up the little stub of wood with its black tip, the fingers of my right delicately retrieve the ash, the little black head, from my pants, sprinkling it out, allowing it to fall between the chair and the bookcase, onto the floor. The little pieces, the specks, are hardly visible against the yellow tile. The fingers of my right hand have been, on the pad of my thumb, on the pad and the side of my forefinger, lightly on the pad of my middle finger, blackened with ash: black stains. There remains, between the fingers of my left hand, no longer than a quarter inch, with its black tip, mute, the little piece of wood: was there, once, something else, between my fingers, besides a little piece of wood, tiny, not more than a quarter inch long, with a blackened tip? Was there, in the air, moving, alive, orange, brilliant, between my fingers, a flame? The cigarette gives off smoke, consuming itself, in the ashtray. And if there was, once, between my fingers, brilliant, in the air, orange, a flame, where was it, so to speak, in what world? Was it, was it in the midst of being, is it, is it in the midst of being, is it still, is it still in the midst of being? It was, it was in the midst of being and it was being, it is, it is in the midst of being, it is still, it is still being. The stub with the black tip falls, when my fingers cease to hold it, upon the yellow tile. Now my blackened fingers pick up the cigarette from the ashtray, bringing it in a single, brusque motion to my mouth. For a moment nothing, so to speak, happens, nothing. From down below, from the television, there comes neither voices nor music: nothing. Nor from further away, from the streets, from the corners, from the sidewalks, from the houses, from the fixed lights that must be, in the same, in the night, in the cold, place: nothing. Nor from above, from the black air, in which shines, round, frigid, white, the moon, not there either, it would seem: nothing. There is only the smoke that rises, slowly diffusing in the bedroom, toward the light, veiling it, lightly, and the bed, the chair, the bookcase, my knees, the desk with the books, the papers piled up behind, against the yellow wall, the glass with the pencils, the pens, my hands, the picture on the wall, the green folder on which it must say, in large, irregular red letters, hurriedly printed, PARANATELLON. Emptiness, and up here, on the surface, sleepiness. Against an empty background that is not, in the strictest sense, any background at all, growing, shrinking, advancing, retreating, accumulating, drowsiness. And the convulsions that ought, by their violence, to dissipate it, are like the convulsions, of — in order to say it, I will say it this way — a dying animal, meant to startle a band of crows: a hurried flight, a fluttering return, and then, again, settling down, to devour. In reality it is unknown, now, where, so to speak, the border remains, nor where, in reality, remains reality. In, to say it somehow, the test tube of the body, the liquid, transparent or cloudy, of sleep, rises up to the eyes, it would seem, and suddenly, while not petrifying them, it coagulates them. Or an agitation, or an anthill, perhaps, that does not exactly agitate, but that expands, in order, setting out, from where? Toward the ends, from the center, toward the ends, that is, to put myself, in another, later, precise, dimension, having passed through a zone, so to speak, of turbulence. A dozing from which one could emerge — where? Or where one enters, you might say, more precisely, having emerged, and for a moment, a sort of, say, flash, from a polished, swift, precise piece of the world, that is nothing but, in memory, that which we call, or that which we believe should be, not just a piece, but the whole — the whole of — the world. Sleepiness, dozing: and the body, which should, at all times, hold fast, rests, or struggles with itself, more accurately, weak, asleep, while in front, or behind, or around, in the grayish smoke, the matter unwinds, one can, in this state, to hold fast to, that which we shall call, for the moment, nothing. Nothing from the ashtray, from the desk, from the green folder, from the two photographs, blurry, repeated, at once, sixty-two thousand times, nor from the dimple, either, nothing, except, monotonous, identical, stable, the shaking of my head. And below, successive, mobile, or immobile, perhaps, changing or identical, at all times, exceeding itself, the emptiness. Fixing my gaze on something, while my fingers bring the cigarette toward the desk and crush it, slowly, into the ashtray. Fixing my gaze. On something. While my fingers. The picture: stains, black, yellow, blue, green, reddish, gray, spinning, immobile, or stampeding, crowding each other, gathered, unstable, suspended, not of conflict, nor of ruins, but of imminence, with nothing, but nothing, neither from this side nor from the other, nothing more than a canvas of blue, yellow, green, black, gray, red (stampeding? suspended? gathering? scattering? before, during, after?) the catastrophe, if there is what we understand to be, or what should be, a catastrophe, and most importantly around what nucleus or what center: a black stain, superimposed, violently, upon a blue stain, strewn with a few broken black strokes, and below, a yellow stain divided, in the middle, by two winding green lines that, unexpectedly, almost immediately, arbitrarily, join, and below, at last, the fragments, suspended, or gathering, or stampeding. And still, the yellow stain is not entirely yellow, nor the blue stain entirely blue, nor are the green stains entirely green, nor are the red fragments entirely red, nor are the grays entirely gray, nor are the broken black strokes either entirely broken or entirely black — the green stains entirely green, nor the red fragments, the gray ones entirely, nor the black strokes, broken, no can one say, either, that there is no center, since the whole thing is, anyway, the center. The blue and black stains, above a wheat field, are supposed to be the sky, and the yellow stain, below the blue and black one that, above a wheat field, is supposed to be the sky, is supposed to be a wheat field, and the winding green lines that, arbitrarily, and suddenly, join, dividing in two the yellow stain that is supposed to be a wheat field, are supposed be a path, and the winding green, red, gray lines, that go along, without, nevertheless, joining, but rather dividing, to the left of the painting, from a common stain, the green lines that are supposed to be a path, one supposes that they, ubiquitous, are supposed to be the earth, and the broken black strokes, nervous, hurried, scattered, disorderly, stampeding, in flight, gathering, suspended, against the blue and black stain that is supposed to be the sky, against the yellow stain that is supposed to be the wheat field, are supposed to be — scattering? gathering? — crows from a common stain, the green lines that are supposed to be, one supposes, below, ubiquitous, the earth, the black strokes, hurried, nervous, stampeding, which are supposed to be, and above the blue and black stain, vague, yellowish, whitish, two circles, in an atmosphere not of catastrophe, nor of ruin, not of the day before nor the day after, but of imminence, so that before, or after, on this side, or on the other, there can be nothing, what is called nothing. Or fixing, my gaze that is, on something, on something else, and seeing, for a moment, what would be necessary, trying to force out of it, if it were even possible, for once, even if it were only a, to call it something, sign. But no, there is nothing: nothing on which to fix my gaze, nothing. Nothing I say, for the moment, nothing. And there comes, all at once, or appears, rather, all around, and right here, almost featureless, silence. Exhaustion: and silence that is — permanence? change? permanence and change? permanent change? No way — nothing, it would seem, would be disposed, on the outside, if someone, at some time, should ask something, to respond. Nor allow, either by accident, or above all on purpose, any part, of itself or of anything else, to be glimpsed. No: silence, from this side and from the other, and from this side, stable, dense, exhaustion. On neither side, for the moment, is there a sound that could be, so to speak, interpreted, or that coming, at once, from things, appearing, resonating, becomes, for a fraction of a second, intelligible, a voice, or would be, to put it better, or more deliberately, if you like, in an anonymous, even impersonal, for no one in particular, and from no one in particular, to call it something, call. I stand: the chair, creaking, breaks, so to speak, into pieces, for a moment, the silence, which at once, immediately, snaps shut again. I am standing, immobile, between the chair and the desk, beneath the light that the smoke, lightly, veils, and from below, from outside, no voice comes, no music, either, no sound, from the television. From outside, from below, now that I am standing, immobile, between the desk and the chair, from the place where they have been, or are still, and may, very well, still be being, even when they are, now, in the darkness of the bedroom, lying, no sound comes, no voice. Now that I am opening the door there comes, along with the cold unmoving air of June, from the far off clock, dark, imperceptible, a chime. Immobile again, in that door between the lit bedroom, full of smoke, hot, with the chair, the desk, the bed, the bookshelf, and the frigid terrace, bright, transparent, over which keeps watch, so to speak, from up above, icy, smooth, the moon. The echo of the chime resounds, for some moments, fleetingly, in me. It has said, even so, to me, and even having wanted, probably, to say something, nothing in particular: it could have been the chime for one o’clock, or for one thirty, or for quarter to two, or for quarter to one, or for twelve thirty, or for twelve fifteen, or also, probably — and why not? — the last stroke of midnight; or the last of eleven o’clock, or eleven fifteen, or even, probably, eleven thirty, or, much more likely, even, and probably, a quarter to twelve. I am standing at the doorway, between the bedroom and the terrace. And I am still being, but not, at the same time, seated in the chair. Am I still being, and not at the same time, seated in the chair? Am I still being seated in the chair and am I still being standing immobile on one side of the chair with the echo of the creak that has broken, for a moment, the silence, and am I still being crossing the space between the chair and the door, and am I still being hearing, as I open the door, dull, far off, the chime, while I am existing, immobile, standing, looking in the direction of the cold darkness, in the doorway between the bedroom and the terrace? Am I? Am I still? And if I am, if I am still, where am I and am I still, in what world? In one from which there comes, for now, no call. No voice, in effect, to obey, nor, to direct, so to speak, when I move, my footsteps: no, I am standing, immobile, not going anywhere, in the doorway, looking toward the terrace at what is watched over by, from above, frigid, the moon, my back to the illuminated bedroom onto which the smoke settles, delicately, a mist, and I have been crossing, slowly, the space between the chair and the door, I have been opening the door, I have been standing immobile for a moment next to the chair, I have been standing up from the chair, having been seated, in silence, and still failing to hear, from anywhere, what I would say is, what we may say is, what we could call, austerely, a direction, immediately, imperceptibly, almost inaudible, coming from outside, a call. Nor does a call move me now, to cross, so to speak, the doorway, taking a step, just one step, toward the terrace, toward the cold, to cross, as if for the first time, or, plain and simple, for the first time, the threshold: and there is, there is an inaudible roar, when I pass, without the bookshelf, without the chair, without the desk, without the Wheatfield with Crows, the light lightly veiled by the smoke, into the other place. It is other and, even so, it is, and no bigger, the same — moving? still? — place. Nor does a call, now, fix me in this place, immobile, make me turn now, and make me, now, cross again, in the opposite direction — and why direction? why opposite? — the, to call it something, threshold. And if there were, that is, what we could call, so to speak, a meaning, that is, a break, arbitrary, laughable, in the huge stain that moves — how? where? and most of all: why? — if there were, between two points, one that we could call the beginning, the other the end, or, respectively, the cause and the effect, one could say that, without receiving a call, without a purpose, I pass, from the beginning to the end, from the illuminated bedroom to the frigid terrace, I return, you might say, through the doorway, and, with no call having intervened, no call, from end to beginning, from effect, so to speak, to cause, from the dark, cold terrace to the bedroom whose light, tenuously, is veiled by smoke, then no one, but no one, could really say how, or where, or when, or, most of all, why. Now I am standing immobile, my back to the terrace, beneath the light enveloped in smoke, facing the yellow wall, at one point in the room, between the chair and the door. At one point. In the room. Between the chair. And the door. At one point in the room, between the chair and the door. At one point? At one point in the room? Between the chair? Between the chair and the door? At one point in the room between the chair and the door? I am existing, standing, facing the terrace now, the open door, at a point in the room, that is, in turn, at some point, immobile, that is in turn at some point, between the chair and the door. Now I am crossing, slowly, so to speak, the doorway: and there resounds, in the air, for the first time, inaudible, the roar: but no, no, not the first: it re-sounds, nothing more, inaudible, the roar, as I cross, so to speak, slowly, the doorway. The cold air touches, or brushes, or settles onto my cheeks. I go forth, slowly, toward the center of the terrace, below the moon: frigid, round, yellow, keeping watch, all around, over the stars. And all in a circle, and all around, the city: another, at some point, with its dark blocks, its files of streetlamps, its tree-lined patios, its subtle sounds, permanent, or changing, perhaps, chaotic, silent, place. And the lights, in the vast, tranquil darkness, indicate, each one, in its spot, a fixed, limited, brilliant, place. There is, certainly, somewhere, behind me, another point, illuminated, with the desk, the chair, the bookcase, the green folder on which I have written, in large red, irregular, hurriedly printed letters, PARANATELLON. Is there, somewhere, illuminated, full of smoke, with the light, the bed, the picture, and the chair, that place? From the moon, with its frigid light, there descends, so to speak, no sound. And I think, moreover, of nothing. For the moment, now, no sound, nothing. No bird, singing, in the darkness, up above, to somewhere else, standing out, for a moment, black, sharp, against the sky, and no sign, either, that something, at this moment, might be about, you might say, in the sky, or here, around, to move, or to flutter: nothing. Nor any shadow disengaging itself, so to speak, from the shade, nor changing smoothly, its place: not that either: nothing. Except, naturally, exhaustion, and above, round, frigid, keeping watch, all around, and for the moment, over the stars, the moon. The cold coils around me. The cold that should have, that should, rather, or perhaps, I don’t know anymore, that would, if you will, or that, probably, having crossed from the heat of the room, the enclosed space, through the doorway, and hitting, suddenly, my cheeks, that should have, it seems, diminished, you might say, has, on the contrary, in effect, increased, on my face, or, perhaps, behind it, paradoxically, my sleepiness. That is the way it should have been, as usual, apparently diminishing as I stepped outside, and yet, on the contrary, apparently, or more precisely you might say that, on my face, or more precisely behind, it had been, so to speak, precisely, increased. Wandering, floating, or immobile, perhaps, the darkness brings, frozen, in a continual flow, the moon, the stars, lights, blocks, trees, around, and brings them back, slowly, again, giving the illusion, paradoxically, of motionlessness, floating around, stars, lights, trees. Unexpectedly, on the contrary, and from somewhere else, rather than having, as might be expected, effectively, diminished, it seems to have, the sleepiness, behind, or inside, better now, clearly, having gone, from the illuminated bedroom, slowly, through the doorway, in the darkness, sharply, to have increased. Crossing, coming, or settling onto, already, in the darkness, opening up, so to speak, the cold, in solidarity with my sleepiness, or even better, one with it, envelopes me, now, increasing it and not, as it should have, diminishing it. Everything is one. It seems possible now to make out nothing: there would seem to have been, effectively, so to speak, no separation, nor, would there seem to be, as it seems that there should be, an inside, an in front, an outside, an in back, an, imaginary, all around: no, nothing. Out in the cold darkness are, so to speak, the terrace, and also the moon, and swept together, chaotically, strewn about, the black patios, and the trees, the houses, the lights, the stars as well, cold, green, immobile, everything inside, probably, of something and traveling — wandering, you might say, more precisely, and, without, to say it somehow, direction, and without, for the moment, cohesion, the mass curve that seems to continually consume itself, and continues, nevertheless, to be the same, and that being, nevertheless, fixed, in place, at all times, in its own place — toward what? — passes, it would seem, hurriedly in a certain sense, and departs. Everything, for the moment, it seems, would be, you might say, one: without, so to speak, any particularity, with no inside, or outside, and no, so to speak, delightful, happy, diversity — the flow, without intermissions, without rhythm, without origin, which now, so to speak, drifts, and which will be, it would seem, always, the same, with its moons, its stars, its abandoned blocks, its cold terraces, the desk, the chair, the bookshelf, the point between the chair and the door, reincarnating itself, consuming itself — where? when? and most of all, why? — to call it something, place. It is, for the moment, being, as you might say, continuous, entire, in its place: exhaustion, useless, fragmented, leaving no impression, a magma, to express it somehow, and nothing, but nothing, to take from it. I am seemingly standing, then, immobile, on the cold terrace, it would seem, yes, momentarily, yet I am able to take, from all of this, nothing. It is a state that, you might say, should not be, or should not have been, anyway, in the condition, or perhaps the node, or the root, should not have been, or should not, rather, and yet, it seems, apparently, to confuse, or fuse, erasing the limits, if the expression could, at this moment, say, precisely, something, it should not have, I have said, or should not, would not have been, really, apparently, confused or fused. One could say, so to speak, somehow, flowing, and being, once again, always, in the same place, there is nothing left to flow, no other — no other, that is, somewhere else, where it is not flowing, fixed, as I have said, place. And now I am turning around, I am leaving behind the moon, the stars, and chaotic, silent, the city. I am, at this moment, turning, leaving, so to speak, behind me, guarded, the stars, the moon, and chaotic, in chiaroscuro, the city. And I continue, so to speak, to move forward, to the left, on the inside now — in what world? — to the right, passing, and not just in space — to what place? — to the left, once again an abyss, the right again and again everything, everything remains, so to speak, forever, behind me: moving forward, immobile, blurry, in the darkness, in the cold, having erased, imperceptibly, the limits: inside, outside, below, above, around, before, now, after. The left, the right, the left, the right, the left, the right: floating, wandering, never hearing what we call, to call it something, a call, that imposes, arbitrarily, what you might call, so to speak, a direction, in some part, sleepiness, nodding, with nothing startling to bring forth an awakening, and what stands out, despite all of this, is the exhaustion, as if it were, or as if it were possible to be certain that there is, or that there could be, in another moment, another state. It is, it would seem, or is being, really, although it would be, really, difficult, if you like, to fix it in a given moment, right then, right there, it would seem, without it having to declare, as usual, in that continuous, curved, perhaps, flow, in which slowly, ravaged, blindly, it drifts, where it should have been, or should be, really, would have, yes, or no, should have been, really, should have, yes, or should? Yes, or no, actually, I’ve said should have, crossing, although if I had remained I would have, anyway, in a certain sense, stayed in it, the doorway, with the fragile, inaudible roar, that should, or should have, yes, should have, instead of, unexpectedly, I said, and perhaps, also, somehow, to call it something, imperceptibly, increased, that should have, I have said, crossing, having stood in the darkness, before the frigid, round, white moon, with the rooftops in confusion all around, the patios, floating, wandering — toward what? — giving the possibility, improbably, somewhere else, of a change of state, lightly, or gradually, even, against my cheeks, or behind, really, inside, has in fact diminished. Crossing the threshold now, and entering, so to speak, the illuminated bedroom. I am existing standing in the illuminated room, now, before the bed: and now I am taking off, carelessly, the blue wool jacket and hanging it on the back of the chair, taking off, slowly, my tie, unbuttoning the collar of my shirt. The tie, with wide diagonal stripes, gray and blue, I hang now on the back of the chair, over the blue jacket. Now I am taking off my white pullover, I am still taking off the white pullover, I am yanking the white pullover up to get it over my head, yanking it by the collar, and for a moment, now, for a moment, I see the illuminated room through the thick knit of the wool which transforms the whole space into a grid, pockmarked, really, with luminous points and black ones. And now I am putting down, after having arranged it a bit, pulling out the sleeves and folding it, the white pullover on top of the jacket and the tie, on the back of the chair. Now I am standing in shirtsleeves, fixed between the bed and the chair, in the illuminated room. There is, it seems, something that would like, so to speak, to come. It seems. Like a head of something that stretches up from below, from the bottom, really, just now: but no, nothing. Immobile, in the illuminated bedroom that is hard, inalterable, cold, guarded by the smoke, with the bed, the chair, the bookshelf — the same? always? — place. And now, still standing, I am using my heels to take off my shoes. My feet, so to speak, in blue socks, touch, now, the icy tile. My hands unfasten my belt, unbutton, unhurriedly, my fly: I am taking off, balancing first on my right leg, now on my left, lifting them to fold them over carefully, trying to match up the legs, and depositing them on top of the white pullover, on the back of the chair, still warm, my pants. I have said that I was taking off, carelessly, the blue wool jacket, and, I have said, hanging it on the back of the chair. And I have said: that I took off, slowly, my tie, that I undid the collar of my shirt, the tie with the wide diagonal stripes, gray and blue, the white shirt, hanging it on the back of the chair, on top of the blue jacket. That I yanked up, by the collar, my white pullover, to get it over my head, I have said, and that I saw for a moment, through the wool mesh that enveloped me, so to speak, I have said, the whole room transformed into a pockmarked image of luminous points and black ones. That I stood for a moment, fixed, so to speak, in the room. And I said, that there after having seemed, for a moment, that there was something that, as you might say, was trying to, or, deceptively, appearing to appear, I took off, using my heels, my shoes. I stepped onto the frozen tile in my blue socks, while my hands unfastened, unhurriedly, my belt, my fly, and I said that balancing first on my right leg, then on my left, lifting them to fold them over carefully, trying to match up the legs, and depositing them on top of the white pullover, on the back of the chair, still warm, gray flannel, my pants. And now I am unbuttoning the white shirt, shivering. My underwear, my blue socks, are now, on the yellow tile, three dark mounds. I am, for a second, immobile, completely naked, shivering: in the illuminated room, cold, between the ceiling and the yellow tile, between the yellow walls, naked, for a second, or a fraction of a second, really, sleepy, shivering. A second or a fraction of a second, adrift, inside of something sleepy, shivering. My entire skin, surrounded, entirely, by the air, squeezed by it, so to speak, and more than a moment, it is a state: or the beginning, perhaps, or the pretext, really, for a beginning, because earlier, others could: they would wet, slowly, thoroughly, bringing it afterward to their mouths, in the cup of tea, the cookie, they would let the sugared dough dissolve on the tip of their tongues, and from the contact would come, fiercely, wafting up — from what world? — memory. And now I am taking, from under the pillow, folded up, my orange frieze pajamas. And now, dressed in my pajamas, I am getting in between the frozen sheets, shivering. I am inside. And my hand, coming out from between the frozen sheets, slides along, brushing the rough surface of the yellow wall until it finds, smooth, the light switch. Now I am in the most perfect darkness. Nothing is visible, nothing, neither inside, nor outside, what is called nothing: and yet something happens, deliberately, so to speak, in the blackness, despite the apparent, not and just superficial, immobility. For a moment, as you might say, nothing happens, although I know — since when? — that something, inside, or inside of whatever, so to speak, makes the blackness flicker, is happening: in the most arduous darkness. And to see, now, it seems, yes, to see, out of this nothingness, if it is possible, like others, like before, to extract, like a dream, so to speak, a memory of something: because earlier, others could: they would wet, slowly, in the afternoon, in the kitchen, in the winter, the cookie in the cup of tea, they would bring it to their mouths and deposit it on the tip of their tongues, and from there, suddenly, or gradually, from the tongue, or from the sugared dough, from somewhere, like a vapor from the swamp, would rise, victorious, precise, memory, the memory that, not even knowing what memory is, nor if there is something, outside, to remember, could be the foundation, in the blackness, of something. To see something now: something that, while not the beginning, nevertheless, would serve to begin, or as an example of that which, having begun, would continue. To see, so to speak, to see something, I have said. To see, though your eyes might have, before them, nothing. I am, then, in the darkness, and looking, paying attention, I see rise, slowly, from the swamp, like a memory, the vapor: in a corner of the city, or of the mind, or to a corner, really, of the city, always, or of the mind, as I have said, so to speak, a moment ago, if moment can still, so to speak, mean, what comes coming — from where? — into a corner of the city, then, into the noonday sun, slowly, I float. I must be me, because I am myself, it seems, the one remembering. And the whole corner, with its sun, its crosswalks, its shop windows, the short shadows projecting onto the gray sidewalk, the cars, their chrome, fast, flashing, the houses, the bus full of students turning, slowly, from Mendoza onto San Martín, rise now from the swamp, shining, phosphorescent, wandering for a moment, and then fading. Nothing, now, and everything black again: and again, now, from below, from the bottom, if it is even conceivable that there is, so to speak, a bottom, the four corners, in the noonday sun, and the bodies that move, or are immobile, in the sun, the shop windows, the cars, the bus full of students that looks like it is from another city, inside of which one of the students, crouching, aims his camera at the sunny sidewalk toward which I am floating, slowly, toward the corner, shining, wandering, and nothing now: everything is black again. In the arduous or neutral, really, darkness, one realizes that, even so, something passes, and it seems it would be easier, if you like, to stop it than to find, in the confusion of the hours between murky visions, in the reluctance, a reason, ironclad, constant, and luminous, to want it: flowing, if you like, constantly, because, even eroding us, it can, so to speak, take nothing from us, since it would seem that there is nothing, or that we were given nothing, but nothing, to be taken. And it rises, now, tenacious, like a sun, in the sun again, the memory: the gray pavement onto which the short, passing shadows are neatly stamped, the four corners where people gather together, be they unemployed men warmed by pullovers of every color, who have been there since at least eleven watching the women who shuttle around San Martín dart again and again in and out of shops, or the store employees who have just gotten off work and who either stand idling in the sun or set out in every direction, toward Salta, in the south, toward Primera Junta, in the north, toward 25 de Mayo, in the east, toward San Jerónimo, in the west, to wait, almost certainly, for the bus, to go, almost certainly, home for lunch, the shop windows, perfectly arranged, resplendent, the shoe stores, the corner stores, the fabric shops, the candy and cigarette kiosks, the Gran Doria Bar, whose daytime darkness contrasts with the sparkling brilliance of the exterior, its clients, who drink coffee or vermouth, have seated themselves strategically so as to be able to see, through the large windows, what is happening on the street, inside the bus turning, as I am flowing onto the corner, south, toward Salta, the inside of the bus where one of the students, crouching in his seat by the window, points his camera in the direction where I, on the gray sidewalk, am heading along Mendoza, from west to east, coming upon San Martín, sheathed, deliberately, in my black overcoat, while a man, turning from San Martín onto Mendoza, a man in a gray hat and an overcoat of the same color, from whose collar peeps a yellow scarf, steps aside for me, politely, among the clamor of voices and car motors and laughter, and from the doors that close and open, and from the footsteps that scrape against the sidewalk, and the key rings men jingle in their gloved hands, if hands, if key rings, if scarf, if me, if San Martín, if west, if shop windows, if brilliance, if store, if shadows, if corner — can, now, and again, mean, as you might say, and if you would permit the expression, something. There are also, so to speak, four corners in my mind, in my memory. And from the lower right-hand corner I am coming, slowly, to San Martín, and in the other corner, on the diagonal, in the upper left-hand corner, the patrons of the Gran Doria, sitting in the daytime darkness of the café that contrasts sharply with the brilliance of the exterior, watch, smoking thoughtfully, the street; staggering by and piling up between the other two corners are pedestrians, cars, the bus full of students, the two intersecting streets, the shop windows, and above everything, the sparkling blue sky — if sparkling, if everything, if students, if café, if daytime, have, even in my memory, even in my mind, some, so to speak, meaning. And I am existing always, now, in the blackness, in the same, floating, wandering, inside of something, or in something that passes along with the mobile memory that rises, disappears and comes back, stubbornly, victorious, to rise, from the swamp, uncertain, changing and resting, shrunken, frozen, unapproachable, from within or from without, place. In the corners of my memory, mobile, confused, there are, toward the center, clearer, the stains of the morning that move, the black, green, yellow, blue, white, gray stains, stains of the luminous morning that float, changing, not simply, like living organisms, their form, but also, and always, their place: the blue sky, full of sparkling splinters, smooth, from above the gray or white houses, the cars advancing slowly along Mendoza, from west to east, red, white, green, blue, black, yellow, their motors revving in first, the shouts and the laughter, the voices, the footsteps scraping against the sidewalk, the metal grating that screech sharply closed, the key rings jingling in gloved hands, the shop windows, perfectly arranged, the horns, the daytime darkness of the Gran Doria, through whose large windows its patrons, slowly drinking vermouth or coffee, abstractly consider, smoking unhurriedly, the street, the women who pass by, their shopping done, saddled with packages under their arms, beneath the gaze of men wrapped in pullovers that are blue, green, white, maroon, lilac, red, who smoke under the sun, leaning against windows or standing, upright, on the curb, the sky-blue bus full of students that must have come, surely, to visit the city, inside of which one of the students, crouched in his seat, barely keeping his balance as the bus tilts, turning from Mendoza to San Martín, to the south, points his camera, which obscures the greater part of his face, toward the corner, the point on the gray sidewalk where I am flowing from San Martín, just about to obligate the man in the yellow scarf to step aside, yielding to me, at noon, in the sun, in the street, in the luminous winter — and the borders, crumbling, or graying, really, of the memory, move, stretch, or shrink, the memory that has been rising up, so to speak, from the black, and that flickers, patently, at the heart of the abyss, as if it were saying, or as if it were, really, trying to say, that there is something, something, from which to derive, so to speak, evidence to the contrary, the negation of the negation that there has been, at some point, noon, winter, the daytime darkness of the Gran Doria from which silent men observe, as they smoke, the street through picture windows, a bus from another city inside of which a student points his camera at the sidewalk, four corners bathed in a brilliant roar, and above all, floating from Mendoza to San Martín, the thing that would bring, like a black vessel, with its cars, its windows, its sounds, its yellow scarf, its frozen light, to this point, this memory. And as if it were possible to know, if it really is memory, of what, exactly, it is a memory: that is, what could there be in common, so to speak, between a yellow scarf, and the memory that rises — from what world? — yellow, in the form of a scarf that extends, now, from that corner into the center. It seems that there would be, or should be, really, nothing in common between those two yellow stains, the one I remember, the one I remember remembering, or the one that I believe, really, seeing it appear, that I remember, and the one that has been outside, in another place, in another time, no bridge, no, so to speak, relation. And concerning the men that, I think I have said, appear to me, in the daytime darkness of the Gran Doria, smoking, drinking coffee, I know, really, so to speak, nothing: I couldn’t say, probably, at this distance, if they are drinking, really, coffee, or if they are smoking, or if they are, really, men, unless they cling to, so to speak, in this emptiness, memories that are, ultimately, memories of nothing, of nothing in particular, and I couldn’t even say of them that they are, really, in the precise meaning of the word, if a word should have, by obligation, a precise meaning, memories. The cup, moreover, of coffee that is supposedly rising, at this very moment, to my lips, would be, in reality, in memory, not a cup, and the coffee, not coffee, no quantity of black liquid, steaming, covered in golden foam, that has not filled anything, anywhere, and has never passed to nowhere, having been swallowed by no one, bitter, lukewarm, down no throat: no, there is, in the memory of that coffee, no coffee, and the yellow scarf, which should be the source of the yellow stain that rises now, alone, from the swamp, floats, disintegrating — where is it, in what world, or in what worlds?