The Unnamable (15 page)

reprehend
him? Unfortunately we must stick to the facts, for what else is there, to stick to,
to cling to, when all founders, but the facts, when there are any, still floating,
within reach of the heart, happy expression that, of the heart crying out, The facts
are there, the facts are there, and then more calmly, when the danger is past, the
continuation, namely, in the case before us, Here there is no wood, nor any stone,
or if there is, the facts are there, it’s as if there wasn’t, the facts are there,
no vegetables, no minerals, only Worm, kingdom unknown, Worm is there, as it were,
as it were. But not too fast, it’s too soon, to return, to where I am, empty-handed,
in triumph, to where I’m waiting, calm, passably calm, knowing, thinking I know, that
nothing has befallen me, nothing will befall me, nothing good, nothing bad, nothing
to be the death of me, nothing to be the life of me, it would be premature. I see
me, I see my place, there is nothing to show it, nothing to distinguish it, from all
the other places, they are mine, all mine, if I wish, I wish none but mine, there
is nothing to mark it, I am there so little, I see it, I feel it round me, it enfolds
me, it covers me, if only this voice would stop, for a second, it would seem long
to me, a second of silence. I’d listen, I’d know if it was going to start again, or
if it was stilled for ever, what would I know it with, I’d know. And I’d keep on listening,
to try and advance in their good graces, keep my place in their favour, and be ready,
in case they judged fit to take me in hand again, or I’d stop, stop listening, is
it possible that one day I shall stop listening, without having to fear the worst,
namely, I don’t know, what can be worse than this, a woman’s voice perhaps, I hadn’t
thought of that, they might engage a soprano. But let us leave these dreams and try
again. If only I knew what they want, they want me to be Worm, but I was, I was, what’s
wrong, I was, but ill, it must be that, it can only be
that, what else can it be, but that, I didn’t report in the light, the light of day,
in their midst, to hear them say, Didn’t we tell you you were alive and kicking? I
have endured, that must be it, I shouldn’t have endured, but I feel nothing, yes,
yes, this voice, I have endured it, I didn’t fly from it, I should have fled, Worm
should have fled, but where, how, he’s riveted, Worm should have dragged himself away,
no matter where, towards them, towards the azure, but how could he, he can’t stir,
it needn’t be bonds, there are no bonds here, it’s as if he were rooted, that’s bonds
if you like, the earth would have to quake, it isn’t earth, one doesn’t know what
it is, it’s like sargasso, no, it’s like molasses, no, no matter, an eruption is what’s
needed, to spew him into the light. But what calm, apart from the discourse, not a
breath, it’s suspicious, the calm that precedes life, no no, not all this time, it’s
like slime, paradise, it would be paradise, but for this noise, it’s life trying to
get in, no, trying to get him out, or little bubbles bursting all around, no, there’s
no air here, air is to make you choke, light is to close your eyes, that’s where he
must go, where it’s never dark, but here it’s never dark either, yes, here it’s dark,
it’s they who make this grey, with their lamps. When they go, when they go silent,
it will be dark, not a sound, not a glimmer, but they’ll never go, yes, they’ll go,
they’ll go silent perhaps and go, one day, one evening, slowly, sadly, in Indian file,
casting long shadows, towards their master, who will punish them, or who will spare
them, what else is there, up above, for those who lose, punishment, pardon, so they
say. What have you done with your material? We have left it behind. But commanded
to say whether yes or no they filled up the holes, have you filled up the holes yes
or no, they will say yes and no, or some yes, others no, at the same time, not knowing
what answer the master wants, to his question. But both are
defendable
, both yes and no, for they filled up the holes, if you like, and if you don’t like
they didn’t, for they didn’t know what to do, on departing, whether to fill up the
holes or, on the contrary, leave them gaping wide. So they fixed their lamps in the
holes, their long lamps, to prevent them from closing of themselves, it’s like
potter’s clay, their powerful lamps, lit and trained on the within, to make him think
they are still there, notwithstanding the silence, or to make him think the grey is
natural, or to make him go on suffering, for he does not suffer from the noise alone,
he suffers from the grey too, from the light, he must, it’s preferable, or to make
it possible for them to come back, if the master commands them to, without his knowing
they have gone, as if he could know, or for no other reason than their ignorance of
what to do, whether to fill up the holes or let them fill up of themselves, it’s like
shit, there we have it at last, there it is at last, the right word, one has only
to seek, seek in vain, to be sure of finding in the end, it’s a question of elimination.
Enough now about holes. The grey means nothing, the grey silence is not necessarily
a mere lull, to be got through somehow, it may be final, or it may not. But the lamps
unattended will not burn on forever, on the contrary, they will go out, little by
little, without attendants to charge them anew, and go silent, in the end. Then it
will be black. But it is with the black as with the grey, the black proves nothing
either, as to the nature of the silence which it inspissates (as it were). For they
may come back, long after the lights are spent, having pleaded for years in vain before
the master and failed to convince him there is nothing to be done, with Worm, for
Worm. Then all will start over again, obviously. So it will never be known, Worm will
never know, let the silence be black, or let it be grey, it can never be known, as
long as it lasts, whether it is final, or whether it is a mere lull, and what a lull,
when he must listen, strain his ears for the murmurs of olden silences, hold himself
ready for the next instalment, under pain of supplementary thunderbolts. But Worm
must not be confused with another. Though this has no importance, as it happens. For
he who has once had to listen will listen always, whether he knows he will never hear
anything again, or whether he does not. In other words, they like other words, no
doubt about it, silence once broken will never again be whole. Is there then no hope?
Good gracious, no, heavens, what an idea! Just a faint one perhaps, but which will
never serve. But one forgets.
And if there is only one he will depart all alone, towards his master, and his long
shadow will follow him, across the desert, it’s a desert, that’s news, Worm will see
the light in a desert, the light of day, the desert day, the day they catch him, it’s
the same as everywhere else, they say not, they say it’s purer, clearer, fat lot of
difference that will make, oh it is not necessarily the Sahara, or Gobi, there are
others, it’s the ozone that matters, in the beginning, yes indeed, in the end too,
it sterilises. But this livid eye, what use is it to him? To see the light, they call
that seeing, no objection, since it causes him suffering, they call that suffering,
they know how to cause suffering, the master explained to them, Do this, do that,
you’ll see him squirm, you’ll hear him weep. He weeps, it’s a fact, oh not a very
firm one, to be made the most of quick. As for the squirming, nothing doing. But there
is always this to be said, things are only beginning, though long since begun, they
will not lose heart, they’ll remember the motto of William the Silent and keep on
talking, that’s what they’re paid for, not for results. Enough about them, they can
speak of nothing else, all is theirs, but for them there would be nothing, not even
Worm, he’s an idea they have, a word they use, when speaking of them, enough about
them. But this grey, this light, if he could escape from this light, which makes him
suffer, is it not obvious it would make him suffer more and more, in whatever direction
he went, since he is at the centre, and drive him back there, after forty or fifty
vain excursions? No, that is not obvious. For it is obvious the light would lessen
as he went towards it, they would see to that, to make him think he was on the right
road and so bring him to the wall. Then the blaze, the capture and the paean. As long
as he suffers there’s hope, even though they need none, to make him suffer. But how
can they know he suffers? Do they see him? They say they do. But it’s impossible.
Hear him? Certainly not. He makes no noise. A little with his whining perhaps. In
any case they are easy, rightly or wrongly, in their minds, he suffers, and thanks
to them. Oh not yet sufficiently, but gently does it, an excess of severity at this
stage might darken his understanding forever.
Another thing. The problem is delicate. The dulling effect of habit, how do they deal
with that? They can combat it of course, raising the voice, increasing the light.
But suppose, instead of suffering less, as time flies, he continues to suffer as much,
precisely, as the first day. That must be possible. And but suppose, instead of suffering
less than the first day, or no less, he suffers more and more, as time flies, and
the metamorphosis is accomplished, of unchanging future into unchangeable past. Eh?
Another thing, but of a different order. The affair is thorny. Is not a uniform suffering
preferable to one which, by its ups and downs, is liable at certain moments to encourage
the view that perhaps after all it is not eternal? That must depend on the object
pursued. Namely? A little fit of impatience, on the part of the patient. Thank you.
That is the immediate object. Afterwards there will be others. Afterwards he’ll be
given lessons in keeping quiet. But for the moment let him toss and turn at least,
roll on the ground, damn it all, since there’s no other remedy, anything at all, to
relieve the monotony, damn it all, look at the burnt alive, they don’t have to be
told, when not lashed to the stake, to rush about in every direction, without method,
crackling, in search of a little cool, there are even those whose sang-froid is such
that they throw themselves out of the window. No one asks him to go to those lengths.
But simply to discover, without further assistance from without, the alleviations
of flight from self, that’s all, he won’t go far, he needn’t go far. Simply to find
within himself a palliative for what he is, through no fault of his own. Simply to
imitate the hussar who gets up on a chair the better to adjust the plume of his busby,
it’s the least he might do. No one asks him to think, simply to suffer, always in
the same way, without hope of diminution, without hope of
dissolution
, it’s no more complicated than that. No need to think in order to despair. Agreed
then on monotony, it’s more
stimulating
. But how can it be ensured? No matter, no matter how, they are doing the best they
can, with the miserable means at their disposal, a voice, a little light, poor devils,
that’s what they’re paid for, they say, No sign of hardening, no sign of softening,
impossible to say, no matter, it’s a good average, we have only to continue, one day
he’ll understand, one day he’ll thrill, the little spasm will come, a change in the
eye, and cast him up among us. To be on the watch and never sight, to listen for the
moan that never comes, that’s not a life worth living either. And yet it’s theirs.
He is there, says the master, somewhere, do as I tell you, bring him before me, he’s
lacking to my glory. But one last effort, one more, that’s the spirit, that’s the
way, each time as if it were the last, the only way not to lose ground. A great gulp
of stinking air and off we go, we’ll be back in a second. Forward! That’s soon said.
But where is forward? And why? The dirty pack of fake maniacs, they know I don’t know,
they know I forget all they say as fast as they say it. These little pauses are a
poor trick too. When they go silent, so do I. A second later, I’m a second behind
them, I remember a second, for the space of a second, that is to say long enough to
blurt it out, as received, while receiving the next, which is none of my business
either. Not an instant I can call my own and they want me to know where next to turn.
Ah I know what I’d know, and where I’d turn, if I had a head that worked. Let them
tell me again what I’m doing, if they want me to look as if I were doing it. This
tone, these words, to make me think they come from me. Always the same old dodges,
ever since they took it into their heads that my existence is only a question of time.
I think I must have blackouts, whole sentences lost, no, not whole. Perhaps I’ve missed
the keyword to the whole business. I wouldn’t have understood it, but I would have
said it, that’s all that’s required, it would have spoken in my favour, next time
they judge me, well well, so they judge me from time to time, they neglect nothing.
Perhaps one day I’ll know, say, what I’m guilty of. How many of us are there altogether,
finally? And who is holding forth at the moment? And to whom? And about what? These
are futile teasers. Let them put into my mouth at last the words that will save me,
damn me, and no more talk about it, no more talk about anything. But this is my punishment,
my crime is my punishment, that’s what they judge me for, I expiate vilely, like
a pig, dumb, uncomprehending, possessed of no utterance but theirs. They’ll clap me
in a dungeon, I’m in a dungeon, I’ve always been in a dungeon, I hear everything,
every word they say, it’s the only sound, as if I were speaking, to myself, out loud,
in the end you don’t know any more, a voice that never stops, where it’s coming from.
Perhaps there are others here, with me, it’s dark, very properly, it is not necessarily
an
oubliette
for one, or one other, perhaps I have a companion in misfortune, given to talking,
or condemned to talk, you know, any old thing, out loud, without ceasing, but I think
not, what do I think not, that I have a companion in misfortune, that’s it, that would
surprise me, they loathe me, but not to that extent, they say that would surprise
me. I must doze off from time to time, with open eyes, and yet nothing changes, ever.
Gaps, there have always been gaps, it’s the voice stopping, it’s the voice failing
to carry to me, what can it matter, perhaps it’s important, the result is the same,
one perhaps that doesn’t count,