It won't produce
anything?
Samuel Beckett
) And if there is only one he will depart 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 sterilizes.
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 for ever. 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 unchanging 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 key-word 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, 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. 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 me? What
can it matter? (Perhaps it's important? The result is the same - one perhaps that doesn't count, exceptionally. ) They shut me up here, now they're trying to get me out, to shut me up somewhere else - or to let me go. (They are capable of putting me out just to see what I'd do. ) Standing with their backs to the door, their arms folded, their legs crossed, they would observe me. Or all they did was to find me here, on their arrival (or long afterwards). They are not interested in me, only in the place. 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, and comes to an end, it will be because the words have been said, those it behoved to say. (No need to know which, no means of knowing which. ) They'll be there somewhere, in the heap, in the torrent (not necessarily the last). They have to be ratified by the proper authority: that takes time, he's far from here. They bring him the verbatim report of the proceedings, once in a way. (He knows the words that count: it's he who chose them. ) In the meantime the voice continues (while the messenger goes towards the master, and while the master examines the report, and while the messenger comes back with the verdict). The words continue (the wrong words) until the order arrives (to stop everything or to continue everything). (No, superfluous: everything will continue automatically, until the order arrives, to stop everything. ) Perhaps they are somewhere there, the words that count, in what has just been said: the words it behoved to say. (They need not be more than a few. ) They say "they" (speaking of them) to make me think it is I who am speaking. Or I say "they" (speaking of God knows what) to make me think it is not I who am speaking. Or rather there is silence, from the moment the messenger departs until he returns with his orders. (Namely: "Continue. ") For there are long silences from time to time, truces. And then I hear them whispering (some perhaps whispering): "It's over, this time we've hit the mark. " 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 a way (if one can call that respite), when one waits to know one's fate, saying "Perhaps it's not that at all", and saying "Where do these words come from that pour out of my mouth, and what do they mean? " No: saying nothing - for the words don't carry any more. (If one can call that waiting, when there's no reason for it. ) And one listens (that stet) without reason, as one has always listened - because one day listening began, because it cannot stop. (That's not a reason. ) If one can call that respite. But what's all this about not being able to die, live, be born? That must have some bearing. All this about staying where you are, dying, living, being born, unable to go forwards or back, not knowing where you came from, or where you are, or where you're going, or that it's possible to be elsewhere, to be otherwise? Supposing
nothing, asking yourself nothing? You can't, you're there. (You don't know who, you don't know where. ) The thing stays where it is, nothing changes (within it, outside it), apparently. (Apparently! ) And there is nothing for it but to wait for the end, nothing but for the end to come. And at the end all will be the same, at the end at last perhaps all the same as before - as all that livelong time when there was nothing for it but to get to the end, or fly from it, or await for it (trembling or not, resigned or not): the nuisance of doing over, and of being. (Same thing, for one who could never do, never be. ) Ah if only this voice could stop! This meaningless voice which prevents you from being nothing, just barely prevents you from being nothing and nowhere - just enough to keep alight this little yellow flame feebly darting from side to side, panting, as if straining to tear itself from its wick. It should never have been fed, or it should have been put out. (Put out? it should have been let go out. ) Regretting: that's what helps you on, that's what gets you on towards the end of the world. Regretting what is, regretting what was. (It's not the same thing? Yes, it's the same. ) You don't know, what's happening, what's happened. (Perhaps it's the same, the same regrets. ) That's what transports you, towards the end of regretting. But a little animation now for pity's sake! (It's now or never. ) A little spirit!
It won't produce anything? Not a budge? That doesn't matter: we are not tradesmen. And one never knows, does one? No. Perhaps Mahood will emerge from his urn and make his way towards Montmartre, on his belly, singing "I come, I come, my heart's delight". Or Worm, good old Worm! Perhaps he won't be able to bear any more, of not being able, of not being able to bear any more (it would be a pity to miss that). If I were they I'd set the rats on him (water-rats, sewer-rats, they're the best). (Oh not too many - a dozen to a dozen and a half. ) That might help him make up his mind, to get going. And what an introduction, to his future attributes! (No, it would be in vain. A rat wouldn't survive there, not one second. ) But let's have another squint at his eye, that's the place to look. A little raw perhaps, the white, with all the pissing. There's a gleam at last (one hesitates to say of intelligence). Apart from that the same as ever. A trifle more prominent perhaps, more paraphimotically globose. It seems to listen. It's weakening (that's unavoidable), glazing: it's high time to offer it something to bring it clean out of its socket. (In ten years it will be too late. ) The mistake they make of course is to speak of him as if he really existed, in a specific place - whereas the whole thing is no more than a project for the moment. But let them blunder on to the end of their folly, then they can go into the question again (taking care not to compromise themselves by the use of terms, if not of notions, accessible to the understanding). In the same way the case of Mahood has been insufficiently studied. One may experience the need of such creatures
(assuming they are twain) - and even the presentiment of their possible reality - without all these blind and surly disquisitions. A little more reflection would have shown them that the hour to speak, far from having struck, might never strike. But they are compelled to speak. It is forbidden them to stop. Why not then speak of something else? Something the existence of which seems in a certain measure already established? On the subject of which one may chatter away without blushing purple every thirty or forty thousand words at having to employ such locutions. And which moreover (supreme guarantee) has caused the glibbest tongues to wag from time immemorial? It would be preferable. It's the old story: they want to be entertained, while doing their dirty work. (No, not entertained, soothed. No, that's not it either. Solaced? No, even less. No matter. ) With the result they achieve nothing: neither what they want (without knowing exactly what), nor the obscure infamy to which they are committed. The old story. You wouldn't think it was the same gang as a moment ago, would you? What can you expect? They don't know who they are either, nor where they are, nor what they're doing, nor why everything is going so badly, so abominably badly - that must be it. So they build up hypotheses that collapse on top of one another (it's human, a lobster couldn't do it). Ah a nice mess we're in, the whole pack of us! Is it possible we're all in the same boat? No, we're in a nice mess each one in his own peculiar way. I myself have been scandalously bungled, they must be beginning to realize it. I on whom all 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! (Ssst! Pissed on out of hand. ) Ah this blind voice! And these moments of held breath when all listen wildly! And the voice that begins to fumble again, without knowing what it's looking for. And again the tiny silence, and the listening again. For what? No one knows. A sign of life perhaps? A sign of life escaping someone (and bound to be denied if it came)? That's it surely. If only all that could stop, there'd be peace. No, too good to be believed. The listening would go on: for the voice to begin again, for a sign of life, for someone to betray himself (or for something else, anything). What else can there be but signs of life? The fall of a pin? The stirring of a leaf? Or the little cry that frogs give when the scythe slices them in half, or when they are spiked, in their pools, with a spear? One could multiply the examples: it would even be an excellent idea. But there it is, one can't. Perhaps it would be better to be blind: the blind hear better. (Full of general knowledge we are this evening. We have even piano-tuners up our sleeve: they strike A and hear G, two minutes later. ) There's nothing to be seen in any case. This eye is an oversight. But this isn't Worm speaking. (True, so far - who denies it? It would be premature. ) Nor I, for that matter. And
Mahood is notoriously aphonic. But the question is not there, for the moment. (No one knows where it is, but it is not there, for the time being. ) Ah yes, there's great fun to be had from an eye. It weeps for the least little thing: a yes, a no. The yesses make it weep, the noes too. (The perhapses particularly. ) With the result that the grounds for these staggering pronouncements do not always receive the attention they deserve. Mahood, too (I mean Worm - no, Mahood), Mahood too is a great weeper (in case it hasn't been mentioned). His beard is soaking with the muck, it's quite ridiculous - especially as it doesn't relieve him in the slightest. (What could it possibly relieve him of? The poor brute is as cold as a fish, incapable even of cursing his creator: it's purely mechanical. ) But it's time Mahood was forgotten. (He should never have been mentioned. ) No doubt. But is it possible to forget him? It is true one forgets everything. And yet it is to be greatly feared that Mahood will never let himself be completely resorbed. Worm yes: Worm will vanish utterly, as if he had never been - which indeed is probably the case. (As if one could vanish utterly without having been at some previous stage! ) That's soon said. But Mahood too for that matter? (It's not clear - tut tut, it's not clear at all. ) No matter. Mahood will stay where he was put, stuck up to his skull in his vase, opposite the shambles, beseeching the passers-by (without a word, or a gesture, or any play of his features - they don't play) to perceive him ostensibly (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 to sink, sooner or later). That must be it. (Such notions may be entertained, without any process of thought. ) I myself am exceptionally given to the tear. I should have preferred this kept dark: in their position I should have omitted this detail. The truth being I have no vent at my disposal, neither the aforesaid nor those less noble. (How can one enjoy good health under such conditions? ) And what is one to believe? That is not the point, to believe this or that: the point is to guess right, nothing more. They say: "If it's not white it's very likely black. " It must be admitted the method lacks subtlety, in view of the intermediate shades all equally worthy of a chance. The time they waste repeating the same thing, when they must know pertinently it is not the right one! (Recriminations easily rebutted, if they chose to take the trouble - and had the leisure - to reflect on their inanity. ) But how can you think and speak at the same time? How can you think about what you have said, may say, are saying - and at the same time go on with the last-mentioned? You think about any old thing, more or less, in a daze of baseless unanswerable self-reproach. That's why they always repeat the same thing, the same old litany, the one they know by heart: to try and think of something different, of how to say something different from the same old thing
(always the same wrong thing said always wrong). They can find nothing, nothing else to say but the thing that prevents them from finding. They'd do better to think of what they're saying, in order at least to vary its presentation: that's what matters. But how can you think and speak at the same time (without a special gift)? Your thoughts wander, your words too - far apart. (No, that's an exaggeration: apart. ) Between them would be the place to be: where you suffer, rejoice (at being bereft of speech, bereft of thought), and feel nothing, hear nothing, know nothing, say nothing, are nothing. That would be a blessed place to be: where you are. It's a lucky thing they are there (meaning anywhere) to bear the responsibility of this state of affairs: with respect to which if one does not know a great deal one knows at least this, that one would not care to have it on one's conscience. (To have it on one's stomach is enough. ) Yes, I'm a lucky man to have them, these voluble shades. I'll be sorry when they go (for I won't have them always, not at this rate - they'll make me believe I've piped up before they're done with me). The master in any case: we don't intend (listen to them hedging), we don't intend (unless absolutely driven to it) to make the mistake of inquiring into him. He'd turn out to be a mere high official, we'd end up by needing God. (We have lost all sense of decency admittedly, but there are still certain depths we prefer not to sink to. ) Let us keep to the family circle, it's more intimate. We all know one another now, no surprises to be feared. The will has been opened: nothing for anybody. This eye. Curious how this eye invites inspection, demands sympathy, solicits attention, implores assistance. To do what? It's not clear. To stop weeping, have a quick look round? Goggle an instant and close forever? It's it you see and it alone. It's from it you set out to look for a face, to it you return having found nothing, nothing worth having - nothing but a kind of ashen smear. Perhaps it's long grey hair, hanging in a tangle round the mouth, greasy with ancient tears. Or the fringe of a mantle spread like a veil. Or fingers opening and closing to try and shut out the world. Or all together: fingers, hair and rags, mingled inextricably. Suppositions all equally vain: it's enough to enounce them to regret having spoken (familiar torment). (A different past? It's often to be wished - different from yours, when you find out what it was). He is hairless and naked and his hands (laid flat on his knees once and for all) are in no danger of ever getting into mischief. And the face? Balls, all balls. I don't believe in the eye either. There's nothing here, nothing to see, nothing to see with. (Merciful coincidence, when you think what it would be: a world without spectator, and vice versa. Brrr! ) No spectator then. And better still no spectacle - good riddance! If this noise would stop there'd be nothing more to say. I wonder what the chat is about at the moment? Worm presumably (Mahood being abandoned). And I await my
turn. Yes indeed, I do not despair (all things considered) of drawing their attention to my case, some fine day. Not that it offers the least interest. (Hey, something wrong there! "Not that it is particularly interesting"? I'll accept that. ) But it's my turn. I too have the right to be shown impossible. This will never end, there's no sense in fooling oneself. Yes it will, they'll come round to it. After me it will be the end. They'll give up, saying: "It's all a bubble, we've been told a lot of lies, he's been told a lot of lies. " (Who he? The master. ) By whom? No one knows. The everlasting third party: he's the one to blame, for this state of affairs. The master's not to blame, neither are they, neither am I (least of all I). We were foolish to accuse one another (the master me, them, himself; they me, the master, themselves: I them, the master, myself). We are all innocent, enough. Innocent of what? No one knows. Of wanting to know, wanting to be able? Of all this noise about nothing? Of this long sin against the silence that enfolds us? We won't ask any more, what it covers, this innocence we have fallen to. It covers everything: all faults, all questions. It puts an end to questions. Then it will be over. Thanks to me all will be over.
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 for ever. 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 unchanging 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 key-word 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, 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. 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 me? What
can it matter? (Perhaps it's important? The result is the same - one perhaps that doesn't count, exceptionally. ) They shut me up here, now they're trying to get me out, to shut me up somewhere else - or to let me go. (They are capable of putting me out just to see what I'd do. ) Standing with their backs to the door, their arms folded, their legs crossed, they would observe me. Or all they did was to find me here, on their arrival (or long afterwards). They are not interested in me, only in the place. 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, and comes to an end, it will be because the words have been said, those it behoved to say. (No need to know which, no means of knowing which. ) They'll be there somewhere, in the heap, in the torrent (not necessarily the last). They have to be ratified by the proper authority: that takes time, he's far from here. They bring him the verbatim report of the proceedings, once in a way. (He knows the words that count: it's he who chose them. ) In the meantime the voice continues (while the messenger goes towards the master, and while the master examines the report, and while the messenger comes back with the verdict). The words continue (the wrong words) until the order arrives (to stop everything or to continue everything). (No, superfluous: everything will continue automatically, until the order arrives, to stop everything. ) Perhaps they are somewhere there, the words that count, in what has just been said: the words it behoved to say. (They need not be more than a few. ) They say "they" (speaking of them) to make me think it is I who am speaking. Or I say "they" (speaking of God knows what) to make me think it is not I who am speaking. Or rather there is silence, from the moment the messenger departs until he returns with his orders. (Namely: "Continue. ") For there are long silences from time to time, truces. And then I hear them whispering (some perhaps whispering): "It's over, this time we've hit the mark. " 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 a way (if one can call that respite), when one waits to know one's fate, saying "Perhaps it's not that at all", and saying "Where do these words come from that pour out of my mouth, and what do they mean? " No: saying nothing - for the words don't carry any more. (If one can call that waiting, when there's no reason for it. ) And one listens (that stet) without reason, as one has always listened - because one day listening began, because it cannot stop. (That's not a reason. ) If one can call that respite. But what's all this about not being able to die, live, be born? That must have some bearing. All this about staying where you are, dying, living, being born, unable to go forwards or back, not knowing where you came from, or where you are, or where you're going, or that it's possible to be elsewhere, to be otherwise? Supposing
nothing, asking yourself nothing? You can't, you're there. (You don't know who, you don't know where. ) The thing stays where it is, nothing changes (within it, outside it), apparently. (Apparently! ) And there is nothing for it but to wait for the end, nothing but for the end to come. And at the end all will be the same, at the end at last perhaps all the same as before - as all that livelong time when there was nothing for it but to get to the end, or fly from it, or await for it (trembling or not, resigned or not): the nuisance of doing over, and of being. (Same thing, for one who could never do, never be. ) Ah if only this voice could stop! This meaningless voice which prevents you from being nothing, just barely prevents you from being nothing and nowhere - just enough to keep alight this little yellow flame feebly darting from side to side, panting, as if straining to tear itself from its wick. It should never have been fed, or it should have been put out. (Put out? it should have been let go out. ) Regretting: that's what helps you on, that's what gets you on towards the end of the world. Regretting what is, regretting what was. (It's not the same thing? Yes, it's the same. ) You don't know, what's happening, what's happened. (Perhaps it's the same, the same regrets. ) That's what transports you, towards the end of regretting. But a little animation now for pity's sake! (It's now or never. ) A little spirit!
It won't produce anything? Not a budge? That doesn't matter: we are not tradesmen. And one never knows, does one? No. Perhaps Mahood will emerge from his urn and make his way towards Montmartre, on his belly, singing "I come, I come, my heart's delight". Or Worm, good old Worm! Perhaps he won't be able to bear any more, of not being able, of not being able to bear any more (it would be a pity to miss that). If I were they I'd set the rats on him (water-rats, sewer-rats, they're the best). (Oh not too many - a dozen to a dozen and a half. ) That might help him make up his mind, to get going. And what an introduction, to his future attributes! (No, it would be in vain. A rat wouldn't survive there, not one second. ) But let's have another squint at his eye, that's the place to look. A little raw perhaps, the white, with all the pissing. There's a gleam at last (one hesitates to say of intelligence). Apart from that the same as ever. A trifle more prominent perhaps, more paraphimotically globose. It seems to listen. It's weakening (that's unavoidable), glazing: it's high time to offer it something to bring it clean out of its socket. (In ten years it will be too late. ) The mistake they make of course is to speak of him as if he really existed, in a specific place - whereas the whole thing is no more than a project for the moment. But let them blunder on to the end of their folly, then they can go into the question again (taking care not to compromise themselves by the use of terms, if not of notions, accessible to the understanding). In the same way the case of Mahood has been insufficiently studied. One may experience the need of such creatures
(assuming they are twain) - and even the presentiment of their possible reality - without all these blind and surly disquisitions. A little more reflection would have shown them that the hour to speak, far from having struck, might never strike. But they are compelled to speak. It is forbidden them to stop. Why not then speak of something else? Something the existence of which seems in a certain measure already established? On the subject of which one may chatter away without blushing purple every thirty or forty thousand words at having to employ such locutions. And which moreover (supreme guarantee) has caused the glibbest tongues to wag from time immemorial? It would be preferable. It's the old story: they want to be entertained, while doing their dirty work. (No, not entertained, soothed. No, that's not it either. Solaced? No, even less. No matter. ) With the result they achieve nothing: neither what they want (without knowing exactly what), nor the obscure infamy to which they are committed. The old story. You wouldn't think it was the same gang as a moment ago, would you? What can you expect? They don't know who they are either, nor where they are, nor what they're doing, nor why everything is going so badly, so abominably badly - that must be it. So they build up hypotheses that collapse on top of one another (it's human, a lobster couldn't do it). Ah a nice mess we're in, the whole pack of us! Is it possible we're all in the same boat? No, we're in a nice mess each one in his own peculiar way. I myself have been scandalously bungled, they must be beginning to realize it. I on whom all 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! (Ssst! Pissed on out of hand. ) Ah this blind voice! And these moments of held breath when all listen wildly! And the voice that begins to fumble again, without knowing what it's looking for. And again the tiny silence, and the listening again. For what? No one knows. A sign of life perhaps? A sign of life escaping someone (and bound to be denied if it came)? That's it surely. If only all that could stop, there'd be peace. No, too good to be believed. The listening would go on: for the voice to begin again, for a sign of life, for someone to betray himself (or for something else, anything). What else can there be but signs of life? The fall of a pin? The stirring of a leaf? Or the little cry that frogs give when the scythe slices them in half, or when they are spiked, in their pools, with a spear? One could multiply the examples: it would even be an excellent idea. But there it is, one can't. Perhaps it would be better to be blind: the blind hear better. (Full of general knowledge we are this evening. We have even piano-tuners up our sleeve: they strike A and hear G, two minutes later. ) There's nothing to be seen in any case. This eye is an oversight. But this isn't Worm speaking. (True, so far - who denies it? It would be premature. ) Nor I, for that matter. And
Mahood is notoriously aphonic. But the question is not there, for the moment. (No one knows where it is, but it is not there, for the time being. ) Ah yes, there's great fun to be had from an eye. It weeps for the least little thing: a yes, a no. The yesses make it weep, the noes too. (The perhapses particularly. ) With the result that the grounds for these staggering pronouncements do not always receive the attention they deserve. Mahood, too (I mean Worm - no, Mahood), Mahood too is a great weeper (in case it hasn't been mentioned). His beard is soaking with the muck, it's quite ridiculous - especially as it doesn't relieve him in the slightest. (What could it possibly relieve him of? The poor brute is as cold as a fish, incapable even of cursing his creator: it's purely mechanical. ) But it's time Mahood was forgotten. (He should never have been mentioned. ) No doubt. But is it possible to forget him? It is true one forgets everything. And yet it is to be greatly feared that Mahood will never let himself be completely resorbed. Worm yes: Worm will vanish utterly, as if he had never been - which indeed is probably the case. (As if one could vanish utterly without having been at some previous stage! ) That's soon said. But Mahood too for that matter? (It's not clear - tut tut, it's not clear at all. ) No matter. Mahood will stay where he was put, stuck up to his skull in his vase, opposite the shambles, beseeching the passers-by (without a word, or a gesture, or any play of his features - they don't play) to perceive him ostensibly (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 to sink, sooner or later). That must be it. (Such notions may be entertained, without any process of thought. ) I myself am exceptionally given to the tear. I should have preferred this kept dark: in their position I should have omitted this detail. The truth being I have no vent at my disposal, neither the aforesaid nor those less noble. (How can one enjoy good health under such conditions? ) And what is one to believe? That is not the point, to believe this or that: the point is to guess right, nothing more. They say: "If it's not white it's very likely black. " It must be admitted the method lacks subtlety, in view of the intermediate shades all equally worthy of a chance. The time they waste repeating the same thing, when they must know pertinently it is not the right one! (Recriminations easily rebutted, if they chose to take the trouble - and had the leisure - to reflect on their inanity. ) But how can you think and speak at the same time? How can you think about what you have said, may say, are saying - and at the same time go on with the last-mentioned? You think about any old thing, more or less, in a daze of baseless unanswerable self-reproach. That's why they always repeat the same thing, the same old litany, the one they know by heart: to try and think of something different, of how to say something different from the same old thing
(always the same wrong thing said always wrong). They can find nothing, nothing else to say but the thing that prevents them from finding. They'd do better to think of what they're saying, in order at least to vary its presentation: that's what matters. But how can you think and speak at the same time (without a special gift)? Your thoughts wander, your words too - far apart. (No, that's an exaggeration: apart. ) Between them would be the place to be: where you suffer, rejoice (at being bereft of speech, bereft of thought), and feel nothing, hear nothing, know nothing, say nothing, are nothing. That would be a blessed place to be: where you are. It's a lucky thing they are there (meaning anywhere) to bear the responsibility of this state of affairs: with respect to which if one does not know a great deal one knows at least this, that one would not care to have it on one's conscience. (To have it on one's stomach is enough. ) Yes, I'm a lucky man to have them, these voluble shades. I'll be sorry when they go (for I won't have them always, not at this rate - they'll make me believe I've piped up before they're done with me). The master in any case: we don't intend (listen to them hedging), we don't intend (unless absolutely driven to it) to make the mistake of inquiring into him. He'd turn out to be a mere high official, we'd end up by needing God. (We have lost all sense of decency admittedly, but there are still certain depths we prefer not to sink to. ) Let us keep to the family circle, it's more intimate. We all know one another now, no surprises to be feared. The will has been opened: nothing for anybody. This eye. Curious how this eye invites inspection, demands sympathy, solicits attention, implores assistance. To do what? It's not clear. To stop weeping, have a quick look round? Goggle an instant and close forever? It's it you see and it alone. It's from it you set out to look for a face, to it you return having found nothing, nothing worth having - nothing but a kind of ashen smear. Perhaps it's long grey hair, hanging in a tangle round the mouth, greasy with ancient tears. Or the fringe of a mantle spread like a veil. Or fingers opening and closing to try and shut out the world. Or all together: fingers, hair and rags, mingled inextricably. Suppositions all equally vain: it's enough to enounce them to regret having spoken (familiar torment). (A different past? It's often to be wished - different from yours, when you find out what it was). He is hairless and naked and his hands (laid flat on his knees once and for all) are in no danger of ever getting into mischief. And the face? Balls, all balls. I don't believe in the eye either. There's nothing here, nothing to see, nothing to see with. (Merciful coincidence, when you think what it would be: a world without spectator, and vice versa. Brrr! ) No spectator then. And better still no spectacle - good riddance! If this noise would stop there'd be nothing more to say. I wonder what the chat is about at the moment? Worm presumably (Mahood being abandoned). And I await my
turn. Yes indeed, I do not despair (all things considered) of drawing their attention to my case, some fine day. Not that it offers the least interest. (Hey, something wrong there! "Not that it is particularly interesting"? I'll accept that. ) But it's my turn. I too have the right to be shown impossible. This will never end, there's no sense in fooling oneself. Yes it will, they'll come round to it. After me it will be the end. They'll give up, saying: "It's all a bubble, we've been told a lot of lies, he's been told a lot of lies. " (Who he? The master. ) By whom? No one knows. The everlasting third party: he's the one to blame, for this state of affairs. The master's not to blame, neither are they, neither am I (least of all I). We were foolish to accuse one another (the master me, them, himself; they me, the master, themselves: I them, the master, myself). We are all innocent, enough. Innocent of what? No one knows. Of wanting to know, wanting to be able? Of all this noise about nothing? Of this long sin against the silence that enfolds us? We won't ask any more, what it covers, this innocence we have fallen to. It covers everything: all faults, all questions. It puts an end to questions. Then it will be over. Thanks to me all will be over.
