(If when
speaking
of him one may speak of desire.
Samuel Beckett
But it's more likely the same foul brute all the time, amusing himself pretending to be a many, varying his register, his tone, his accent and his drivel.
Unless it comes natural to him.
(A bare and rusty hook I might accept.
But all these titbits!
) But there are long silences too (at long intervals) during which (hearing nothing) I say nothing.
That is to say I hear murmuring, if I listen hard enough.
But it's not for me, it's for them alone: they are putting their heads together again.
I don't hear what they say, all I know is they are still there, they haven't done with me.
They have moved a little aside (secrets).
Or if there is only one it is he alone, taking counsel with himself (muttering and chewing his moustache), getting ready for a fresh flow of inanity.
To think of me eavesdropping - me!
- when silence falls!
Ah a nice state they have me in!
But it's with the hope there is no one left.
But this is not the time to speak of that.
Good.
Of what is it the time to
speak? Of Worm, at last. Good. We must first (to begin with) go back to his beginnings and then (to go on with) follow him patiently through the various stages (taking care to show their fatal concatenation) which have made him what I am. (The whole to be tossed off with bravura. ) Then notes from day to day, until I collapse. And finally (to wind up with) song and dance of thanksgiving by victim, to celebrate his nativity. (Please God nothing goes wrong. ) Mahood I couldn't die. Worm will I ever get born? It's the same problem. (But perhaps not the same personage after all. The scytheman will tell, it's all one to him. ) But let us go back (as planned) afterwards we'll fall forward (as projected). (The reverse would be more like it. But not by much. Upstream, downstream? What matter? ) I begin by the ear (that's the way to talk). Before that it was the night of time. Whereas ever since, what radiance! Now at least I know where I am, as far as my origins go (I mean considered as a subject of conversation - that's what counts). The moment one can say "Someone is on his way" all is well. Perhaps I have still a thousand years to go? No matter: he's on his way. I begin to be familiar with the premises. I wonder if I couldn't sneak out by the fundament, one morning, with the French breakfast? No, I can't move, not yet. (One minute in a skull and the next in a belly - strange! And the next nowhere in particular. Perhaps it's Botal's Foramen, when all about me palpitates and labours. ) Bait, bait! Can it be I have a friend among them, shaking his head in sorrow and saying nothing? Or only (from time to time) "Enough, enough"? One can be before beginning: they have set their hearts on that. They want me roots and all. This onwards-rushing time is the same which used to sleep? And this silence they yelp against in vain and which one day will be restored, the same as in the past? (Perhaps a little the worse for wear. ) Agreed, agreed - I who am on my way, words bellying out my sails, am also that unthinkable ancestor of whom nothing can be said. But perhaps I shall speak of him some day, and of the impenetrable age when I was he: some day when they fall silent, convinced at last I shall never get born (having failed to be conceived). Yes, perhaps I shall speak of him, for an instant (like the echo that mocks), before being restored to him, the one they could not part me from. And indeed they are weakening already, it's perceptible. But it's a feint, to have me rejoice without cause (after their fashion) and accept their terms, for the sake of peace at any price. But I can do nothing, that is what they seem to forget at each instant: I can't rejoice and I can't grieve. (It's in vain they explained to me how it's done, I never understood. ) And what terms? I don't know what it is they want. I say what it is, but I don't know. I emit sounds (better and better, it seems to me). If that's not enough for them I can't help it. If I speak of a head (referring to me) it's because I hear it being
spoken of. But why keep on saying the same thing? They hope things will change one day (it's natural). That one day on my wind-pipe (or some other section of the conduit) a nice little abscess will form, with an idea inside - point of departure for a general infection. This would enable me to jubilate like a normal person, knowing why. And in no time I'd be a network of fistulae, bubbling with the blessed pus of reason. Ah if I were flesh and blood (as they are kind enough to posit) I wouldn't say no: there might be something in their little idea. They say I suffer like true thinking flesh - but I'm sorry, I feel nothing. Mahood, I felt a little, now and then: but what good did that do them? No, they'd be better advised to try something else. I felt the cang, the flies, the sawdust under my stumps, the tarpaulin on my skull (when they were mentioned to me). But can that be called a life which vanishes when the subject is changed? (I don't see why not. But they must have decreed it can't. ) They are too hard to please, they ask too much. They want me to have a pain in the neck (irrefragable proof of animation) while listening to talk of the heavens. They want me to have a mind where it is known once and for all that I have a pain in the neck, that flies are devouring me and that the heavens can do nothing to help. Let them scourge me without ceasing and evermore, more and more lustily (in view of the habituation factor): in the end I might begin to look as if I had grasped the meaning of life. (They might even take a breather from time to time, without my ceasing to howl. For they would have warned me, before they started: "You must howl, do you hear, otherwise it proves nothing? ") And worn out at last, or feeble with old age, and my cries having ceased for want of nourishment, they could pronounce me dead with every appearance of veracity. And without ever having had to move I would have gained my rest and heard them say (striking softly together their dry old hands as if to shake off the dust): "He'll never move again. " No that would be too simple. We must have the heavens and God knows what besides: lights, luminaries, the three-monthly ray of hope and the gleam of consolation. But let us close this parenthesis and, with a light heart, open the next. The noise. How long did I remain a pure ear? Up to the moment when it could go on no longer, being too good to last, compared to what was coming. These millions of different sounds, always the same, recurring without pause, are all one requires to sprout a head (a bud to begin with, finally huge): its function first to silence, then to extinguish when the eye joins in (and worse than the evil), its treasure-house. But no lingering on this thin ice. The mechanism matters little, provided I succeed in saying (before I go deaf) "It's a voice, and it speaks to me"; in inquiring, boldly, if it is not mine: in deciding (it doesn't matter how) that I have none; in blowing darkly hot and cold (with concomitant identical sensations). It's a starting-point, he's off. They don't
see me, but they hear me, panting, riveted (they don't know I'm riveted). He knows they are words, he is not sure they are not his: that's how it begins - with such a start no one ever looked back. One day he'll make them his (when he thinks he is alone, far from all men, out of range of every voice), and come to the light of day they keep telling him of. (Yes, I know they are words. There was a time I didn't - as I still don't know if they are mine. ) Their hopes are therefore founded. In their shoes I'd be content with my knowing what I know. I'd demand no more of me than to know that what I hear is not the innocent and necessary sound of dumb things constrained to endure, but the terror-stricken babble of the condemned to silence. I would have pity, give me quittance, not harry me into appearing my own destroyer. But they are severe, greedy: no less (perhaps more) than when I was playing Mahood. Instead of drawing in their horns! It's true I have not spoken yet. In at one ear and incontinent out through the mouth (or the other ear? - that's possible too, no sense in multiplying the occasions of error). Two holes and me in the middle, slightly choked. Or a single one (entrance and exit) where the words swarm and jostle like ants - hasty, indifferent, bringing nothing, taking nothing away, too light to leave a mark. I shall not say "I" again, ever again, it's too farcical. I shall put in its place, whenever I hear it, the third person (if I think of it). Anything to please them: it will make no difference. Where I am there is no one but me, who am not. So much for that. Words. (He says he knows they are words. But how can he know, who has never heard anything else? True. ) Not to mention other things, many others, to which the abundance of matter has unfortunately up to now prohibited the least allusion. For example (to begin with) his breathing. There he is now with breath in his nostrils (it only remains for him to suffocate). The thorax rises and falls, the wear and tear are in full spring. The rot spreads downwards. Soon he'll have legs, the possibility of crawling. More lies: he doesn't breathe yet. He'll never breathe. (Then what is this faint noise, as of air stealthily stirred, recalling the breath of life, to those it corrodes? It's a bad example. ) But these lights that go out hissing? Is it not more likely a great crackle of laughter, at the sight of his terror and distress? To see him flooded with light, then suddenly plunged back in darkness, must strike them as irresistibly funny. But they have been there so long now, on every side. They may have made a hole in the wall, a little hole, to glue their eyes to (turn and turn about). And these lights are perhaps those they shine upon him, from time to time, in order to observe the progress he is making. But this question of lights deserves to be treated in a section apart, it is so intriguing - and at length, composedly. And so it will be, at the first opportunity, when time is not so short, and the mind more composed. (Resolution
number twenty-three. ) And in the meantime the conclusion to be drawn? That the only noises Worm has had till now are those of mouths? Correct. Not forgetting the groaning of the air beneath the burden. He's coming, that's the main thing. When on earth later on the storms rage, drowning momentarily the free expression of opinion, he'll know what is afoot: that the end of the world is not at hand. No, in the place where he is he cannot learn, the head cannot work. He knows no more than on the first day. He merely hears, and suffers, uncomprehending (that must be possible). A head has grown out of his ear, the better to enrage him, that must be it. The head is there, glued to the ear, and in it nothing but rage (that's all that matters, for the time being). It's a transformer in which sound is turned, without the help of reason, to rage and terror. (That's all that is required, for the moment. The circumvolutionisation will be seen later, when they get him out. ) Why then the human voice, rather than a hyena's howls or the clanging of a hammer? Answer: so that the shock may not be too great, when the writhings of true lips meet his gaze. (Between them they find a rejoinder to everything. ) And how they enjoy talking! (They know there is no worse torment, for one not in the conversation. ) They are numerous, all round - holding hands perhaps, an endless chain, taking turns to talk. They wheel, in jerks, so that the voice always comes from the same quarter. But often they all speak at once, they all say simultaneously the same thing exactly - but so perfectly together that one would take it for a single voice, a single mouth (if one did not know that God alone can fill the rose of the winds, without moving from his place). ("One" - but not Worm, who says nothing, knows nothing, yet. ) Similarly turn and turn about they benefit by the peep-hole (those who care to). While one speaks another peeps: the one no doubt whose voice is next due and whose remarks may possibly have reference to what he may possibly have seen - this depending on whether what he has seen has aroused his interest to the extent of appearing worthy of remark (even indirectly). But what hope has sustained them, all the time they have been thus employed? For it is difficult not to suppose them sustained by some form of hope. And what is the nature of the change they are on the look out for, gluing one eye to the hole and closing the other? They have no pedagogic purpose in view, that's definite. There is no question of imparting to him any instruction whatsoever, for the moment. This catechist's tongue, honeyed and perfidious, is the only one they know. Let him move, try and move - that's all they ask, for the moment. No matter where he goes: being at the centre, he will go towards them. So he is at the centre! There is a clue of the highest interest! (It matters little to what. ) They look, to see if he has stirred. He is nothing but a shapeless heap, without a face capable of reflecting the niceties of a torment, but
the disposition of which (its greater or lesser degree of crouch and huddledness) is no doubt expressive, for specialists, and enables them to assess the chances of its suddenly making a bound, or dragging its coils faintly away, as if stricken to death. Somewhere in the heap an eye, a wild equine eye, always open. (They must have an eye, they see him possessed of an eye. ) No matter where he goes he will go towards them: towards their song of triumph (when they know he has moved), or towards their sudden silence (when they know he has moved) - to make him think he did well to move. Or towards the voice growing softer, as if receding, to make him think he is drawing away from them, but not yet far enough (whereas he is drawing nearer, nearer and nearer). No, he can't think anything, can't judge anything. But the kind of flesh he has is good enough, will try and go where peace seems to be, drop and lie where it suffers no more (or less), or can go no further. Then the voice will begin again (low at first, then louder), coming from the quarter they want him to retreat from - to make him think he is pursued and struggle on, towards them. In this way they'll bring him to the wall - and even to the precise point where they have made other holes through which to pass their arms and seize him. (How physical all this is! ) And then, unable to go any further, because of the obstacle (and unable to go any further in any case, and not needing to go any further for the moment, because of the great silence which has fallen), he will drop. Assuming he had risen. But even a reptile can drop, after a long flight (the expression may be used without impropriety). He will drop. It will be his first corner, his first experience of the vertical support, the vertical shelter (reinforcing those of the ground). That must be something, while waiting for oblivion: to feel a prop and buckler, not only for one of one's six planes, but for two, for the first time. But Worm will never know this joy but darkly (being less than a beast) before he is restored (more or less) to that state in which he was before the beginning of his prehistory. Then they will lay hold of him and gather him into their midst. (For if they could make a small hole for the eye, then bigger ones for the arms, they can make one bigger still for the transit of Worm, from darkness to light. ) But what is the good of talking about what they will do as soon as Worm sets himself in motion (so as to gather him without fail into their midst) - since he cannot set himself in motion, though he often desires to?
(If when speaking of him one may speak of desire. And one may not, one should not. But there it is, that is the way to speak of him, that is the way to speak to him: as if he were alive, as if he could understand, as if he could desire, even if it serves no purpose - and it serves none. ) And it is a blessing for him he cannot stir, even though he suffers because of it. For it would be to sign his life-warrant, to stir from where he is, in search of a little calm and something of the
silence of old. But perhaps one day he will stir: the day when the little effort of the early stages, infinitely weak, will have become (by dint of repetition) a great effort, strong enough to tear him from where he lies. Or perhaps one day they will leave him in peace - letting go their hands, filling up the holes and departing, towards more profitable occupations, in Indian file. For a decision must be reached, the scales must tilt, to one side or the other. (No, one can spend one's life thus, unable to live, unable to bring to life, and die in vain, having done nothing, been nothing. ) It is strange they do not go and fetch him in his den, since they seem to have access to it? They dare not: the air in the midst of which he lies is not for them (and yet they want him to breathe theirs). They could set a dog on him perhaps, with instructions to drag him out. But no dog would survive there either, not for one second. With a long pole perhaps, with a hook at the end? But the place where he lies is vast (that's interesting). He is far, too far for them to reach him even with the longest pole. That tiny blur, in the depths of the pit, is he. (There he is now in a pit: no avenue will have been left unexplored. ) They say they see him. The blur is what they see. (They say the blur is he, perhaps it is. ) They say he hears them. (They don't know: perhaps he does. ) Yes, he hears: nothing else is certain. Worm hears. (Though hear is not the word. But it will do, it will have to do. ) They look down upon him then, according to the latest news: he'll have to climb to reach them. Bah, the latest news is not the last. The slopes are gentle that meet where he lies, they flatten out under him. It is not a meeting. It is not a pit. (That didn't take long: soon we'll have him perched on an eminence. ) They don't know what to say, to be able to believe in him, what to invent, to be reassured. They see nothing. They see grey (like still smoke, unbroken) where he might be (if he must be somewhere), where they have decreed he is. Into which they launch their voices, one after another, in the hope of dislodging him, hearing him stir, seeing him loom within reach of their gaffs, hooks, barbs, grapnels: saved at last, home at last. And now that's enough about them. Their usefulness is over. No, not yet, let them stay. They may still serve. Stay where they are, turning in a ring, launching their voices, through the hole (there must be a hole for the voices too). But is it them he hears? Are they really necessary that he may hear, they and kindred puppets? Enough concessions, to the spirit of geometry. He hears, that's all about it: he who is alone, and mute, lost in the smoke. (It is not real smoke, there is no fire. No matter. ) Strange hell that has no heating, no denizens. Perhaps it's paradise? Perhaps it's the light of paradise (and the solitude)? And this voice the voice of the blest interceding invisible, for the living, for the dead? All is possible. (It isn't the earth, that's all that counts: it can't be the earth. It can't be a hole in the earth, inhabited by Worm alone - or by others if you like,
huddled in a heap like him, mute, immovable. ) And this voice the voice of those who mourn them, envy them, call on them and forget them? (That would account for its incoherence. ) All is possible. (Yes, so much the worse. ) He knows it is a voice (how it is not known: nothing is known). He understands nothing it says (just a little, almost nothing). It's inexplicable, but it's necessary (it's preferable) that he should understand just a little, almost nothing: like a dog that always gets the same filth flung to it, the same orders, the same threats, the same cajoleries. That settles that. The end is in sight. But the eye: let's leave him his eye too. (It's to see with. It's to practise with, before he goes to Killarney. ) What does he do with it? He does nothing with it. The eye stays open: it's an eye without lids. No need for lids here, where nothing happens, or so little. (If he could blink he might miss the odd sight. ) If he could close it, the kind he is, he'd never open it again. Tears gush from it practically without ceasing. (Why is not known: nothing is known. ) Whether it's with rage, or whether it's with grief, the fact is there. Perhaps it's the voice that makes it weep: with rage (or some other passion), or at having to see (from time to time) some sight or other. Perhaps that's it: perhaps he weeps in order not to see. (Though it seems difficult to credit him with an initiative of this complexity. ) The rascal, he's getting humanized! He's going to lose if he doesn't watch out, if he doesn't take care. And with what could he take care? With what could he form the faintest conception of the condition they are decoying him into? With their ears, their eyes, their tears and a brainpan where anything may happen? That's his strength, his only strength: that he understands nothing, can't take thought, doesn't know what they want, doesn't know they are there, feels nothing. Ah but just a moment! He feels, he suffers: the noise makes him suffer. And he knows: he knows it's a voice. And he understands: a few expressions here and there, a few intonations. Ah it looks bad, bad. No, perhaps not. For it's they who describe him thus. Perhaps he hears nothing, suffers nothing. And this eye? More mere imagination. He hears, true (though it's they again who say it). But this can't be denied (this is better not denied). Worm hears, that's all can be said for certain. Whereas there was a time he didn't - the same Worm, according to them. He has therefore changed. That's grave (gravid). Who knows to what lengths he may be carried? No, he can be relied on. The eye too, of course, is there to put him to flight, make him take fright - badly enough to break his bonds. (They call them bonds! ) They want to deliver him. (Ah mother of God, the things one has to listen to! ) Perhaps it's tears of mirth. Well, no matter: let's drive on now to the end of the joke (we must be nearly there), and see what they have to offer him, in the way of bugaboos. Who "we"? Don't all speak at once! There's no sense in that either. All will come right, later on in
the evening, everyone gone and silence restored. In the meantime no sense in bickering about pronouns and other parts of blather. (The subject doesn't matter: there is none. ) Worm being in the singular (as it turned out), they are in the plural - to avoid confusion. (Confusion is better avoided, pending the great confounding. ) Perhaps there is only one of them: one would do the trick just as well. But he might get mixed up with his victim: that would be abominable, downright masturbation. We're getting on. Nothing much then in the way of sights for sore eyes. But who can be sure who has not been there, has not lived there? (They call that living! ) For them the spark is present, ready to burst into flame, all it needs is preaching on, to become a living torch (screams included). Then they may go silent - without having to fear an embarrassing silence (when steps are heard on graves as the saying is), genuine hell. Decidedly this eye is hard of hearing. Noises travel, traverse walls. But may the same be said of appearances? By no means, generally speaking - but the present case is rather special. But what appearances? It is always well to try and find out what one is talking about, even at the risk of being deceived. This grey to begin with: meant to be depressing no doubt. And yet there is yellow in it, pink too apparently. It's a nice grey, of the kind recommended as going with everything, urinous and warm. In it the eye can see (otherwise why the eye? ), but dimly. (That's right: no superfluous particulars, later to be controverted. ) A man would wonder where his kingdom ended: his eye strive to penetrate the gloom, and he crave for a stick, an arm, fingers apt to grasp and then release (at the right moment) a stone, stones. Or for the power to utter a cry and wait, counting the seconds, for it to come back to him. And suffer, certainly, at having neither voice nor other missile, nor limbs submissive to him, bending and unbending at the word of command. And perhaps even regret being a man, under such conditions (that is to say a head abandoned to its ancient solitary resources). But Worm suffers only from the noise which prevents him from being what he was before. (Admit the nuance! ) If it's the same Worm (and they have set their heart on it). And if it is not it makes no difference: he suffers as he has always suffered, from this noise that prevents nothing. (That must be feasible. ) In any case this grey can hardly be said to add to his misery: brightness would be better suited for that purpose, since he cannot close his eye. He cannot avert it either, nor lower it, nor lift it up. It remains trained on the same tiny field, a stranger forever to the boons and blessings of accommodation. But perhaps one day brightness will come (little by little, or rapidly, or in a sudden flood). And then it is hard to see how Worm could stay. And it is hard to see how he could go. But impossible situations cannot be prolonged, unduly, the fact is well known. Either they disperse, or else they turn out to be possible after all (it's only
to be expected). Not to mention other possibilities. Let there then be light: it will not necessarily be disastrous. Or let there be none: we'll manage without it. But these lights (in the plural) which rear aloft, swell, sweep down and go out hissing, reminding one of the naja? Perhaps the moment has come to throw them into the balance and have done with this tedious equipoise, at last. No, the moment has not yet come, to do that. Ha. None of your hoping here, that would spoil everything. Let others hope for him (outside, in the cool, in the light) if they have a wish to. Or if they are obliged to. Or if they are paid to. (Yes, they must be paid to hope. ) They hope nothing, they hope things will continue as they are. It's a soft job. Their thoughts wander as they call on Jude. It's praying they are, praying for Worm, praying to Worm, to have pity: pity on them, pity on Worm. (They call that pity! Merciful God, the things one has to put up with! ) Fortunately it all means nothing to him. Currish obscurity! To thy kennel, hell-hound! Grey. What else? Calm, calm. There must be something else, to go with this grey, which goes with everything. There must be something of everything here, as in every world: a little of everything. Mighty little, it seems. Beside the point in any case. What balls is going on before this impotent crystalline: that's all that needs to be imagined. A face! How encouraging that would be! If it could be a face, every now and then! Always the same, methodically varying its expression, doggedly demonstrating all a true face can do, without ever ceasing to be recognizable as such. Passing from unmixed joy to the sullen fixity of marble, via the most characteristic shades of disenchantment. How pleasant that would be! Worth ten of Saint Anthony's pig's arse! Passing by at the right distance, the right level (say once a month, that's not exorbitant) - full face and profile, like criminals. It might even pause, open its mouth, raise its eyebrows, bless its soul, stutter, mutter, howl, groan and finally shut up (the chaps clenched to cracking point - or fallen, to let the dribble out). That would be nice! A presence at last! A visitor, faithful - with his visiting-day, his visiting-hour. Never staying too long (it would be wearisome) or too little (it would not be long enough), but just the necessary time for hope to be born, grow, languish and die. (Say five minutes. ) And even should the notion of time dawn on his darkness, at this punctual image of the countenance everlasting, who could blame him? (Involving very naturally that of space: they have taken to going hand in hand, in some quarters, it's safer. ) And the game would be won, lost and won. He'd be somehow suddenly among us, among the rendezvous.
speak? Of Worm, at last. Good. We must first (to begin with) go back to his beginnings and then (to go on with) follow him patiently through the various stages (taking care to show their fatal concatenation) which have made him what I am. (The whole to be tossed off with bravura. ) Then notes from day to day, until I collapse. And finally (to wind up with) song and dance of thanksgiving by victim, to celebrate his nativity. (Please God nothing goes wrong. ) Mahood I couldn't die. Worm will I ever get born? It's the same problem. (But perhaps not the same personage after all. The scytheman will tell, it's all one to him. ) But let us go back (as planned) afterwards we'll fall forward (as projected). (The reverse would be more like it. But not by much. Upstream, downstream? What matter? ) I begin by the ear (that's the way to talk). Before that it was the night of time. Whereas ever since, what radiance! Now at least I know where I am, as far as my origins go (I mean considered as a subject of conversation - that's what counts). The moment one can say "Someone is on his way" all is well. Perhaps I have still a thousand years to go? No matter: he's on his way. I begin to be familiar with the premises. I wonder if I couldn't sneak out by the fundament, one morning, with the French breakfast? No, I can't move, not yet. (One minute in a skull and the next in a belly - strange! And the next nowhere in particular. Perhaps it's Botal's Foramen, when all about me palpitates and labours. ) Bait, bait! Can it be I have a friend among them, shaking his head in sorrow and saying nothing? Or only (from time to time) "Enough, enough"? One can be before beginning: they have set their hearts on that. They want me roots and all. This onwards-rushing time is the same which used to sleep? And this silence they yelp against in vain and which one day will be restored, the same as in the past? (Perhaps a little the worse for wear. ) Agreed, agreed - I who am on my way, words bellying out my sails, am also that unthinkable ancestor of whom nothing can be said. But perhaps I shall speak of him some day, and of the impenetrable age when I was he: some day when they fall silent, convinced at last I shall never get born (having failed to be conceived). Yes, perhaps I shall speak of him, for an instant (like the echo that mocks), before being restored to him, the one they could not part me from. And indeed they are weakening already, it's perceptible. But it's a feint, to have me rejoice without cause (after their fashion) and accept their terms, for the sake of peace at any price. But I can do nothing, that is what they seem to forget at each instant: I can't rejoice and I can't grieve. (It's in vain they explained to me how it's done, I never understood. ) And what terms? I don't know what it is they want. I say what it is, but I don't know. I emit sounds (better and better, it seems to me). If that's not enough for them I can't help it. If I speak of a head (referring to me) it's because I hear it being
spoken of. But why keep on saying the same thing? They hope things will change one day (it's natural). That one day on my wind-pipe (or some other section of the conduit) a nice little abscess will form, with an idea inside - point of departure for a general infection. This would enable me to jubilate like a normal person, knowing why. And in no time I'd be a network of fistulae, bubbling with the blessed pus of reason. Ah if I were flesh and blood (as they are kind enough to posit) I wouldn't say no: there might be something in their little idea. They say I suffer like true thinking flesh - but I'm sorry, I feel nothing. Mahood, I felt a little, now and then: but what good did that do them? No, they'd be better advised to try something else. I felt the cang, the flies, the sawdust under my stumps, the tarpaulin on my skull (when they were mentioned to me). But can that be called a life which vanishes when the subject is changed? (I don't see why not. But they must have decreed it can't. ) They are too hard to please, they ask too much. They want me to have a pain in the neck (irrefragable proof of animation) while listening to talk of the heavens. They want me to have a mind where it is known once and for all that I have a pain in the neck, that flies are devouring me and that the heavens can do nothing to help. Let them scourge me without ceasing and evermore, more and more lustily (in view of the habituation factor): in the end I might begin to look as if I had grasped the meaning of life. (They might even take a breather from time to time, without my ceasing to howl. For they would have warned me, before they started: "You must howl, do you hear, otherwise it proves nothing? ") And worn out at last, or feeble with old age, and my cries having ceased for want of nourishment, they could pronounce me dead with every appearance of veracity. And without ever having had to move I would have gained my rest and heard them say (striking softly together their dry old hands as if to shake off the dust): "He'll never move again. " No that would be too simple. We must have the heavens and God knows what besides: lights, luminaries, the three-monthly ray of hope and the gleam of consolation. But let us close this parenthesis and, with a light heart, open the next. The noise. How long did I remain a pure ear? Up to the moment when it could go on no longer, being too good to last, compared to what was coming. These millions of different sounds, always the same, recurring without pause, are all one requires to sprout a head (a bud to begin with, finally huge): its function first to silence, then to extinguish when the eye joins in (and worse than the evil), its treasure-house. But no lingering on this thin ice. The mechanism matters little, provided I succeed in saying (before I go deaf) "It's a voice, and it speaks to me"; in inquiring, boldly, if it is not mine: in deciding (it doesn't matter how) that I have none; in blowing darkly hot and cold (with concomitant identical sensations). It's a starting-point, he's off. They don't
see me, but they hear me, panting, riveted (they don't know I'm riveted). He knows they are words, he is not sure they are not his: that's how it begins - with such a start no one ever looked back. One day he'll make them his (when he thinks he is alone, far from all men, out of range of every voice), and come to the light of day they keep telling him of. (Yes, I know they are words. There was a time I didn't - as I still don't know if they are mine. ) Their hopes are therefore founded. In their shoes I'd be content with my knowing what I know. I'd demand no more of me than to know that what I hear is not the innocent and necessary sound of dumb things constrained to endure, but the terror-stricken babble of the condemned to silence. I would have pity, give me quittance, not harry me into appearing my own destroyer. But they are severe, greedy: no less (perhaps more) than when I was playing Mahood. Instead of drawing in their horns! It's true I have not spoken yet. In at one ear and incontinent out through the mouth (or the other ear? - that's possible too, no sense in multiplying the occasions of error). Two holes and me in the middle, slightly choked. Or a single one (entrance and exit) where the words swarm and jostle like ants - hasty, indifferent, bringing nothing, taking nothing away, too light to leave a mark. I shall not say "I" again, ever again, it's too farcical. I shall put in its place, whenever I hear it, the third person (if I think of it). Anything to please them: it will make no difference. Where I am there is no one but me, who am not. So much for that. Words. (He says he knows they are words. But how can he know, who has never heard anything else? True. ) Not to mention other things, many others, to which the abundance of matter has unfortunately up to now prohibited the least allusion. For example (to begin with) his breathing. There he is now with breath in his nostrils (it only remains for him to suffocate). The thorax rises and falls, the wear and tear are in full spring. The rot spreads downwards. Soon he'll have legs, the possibility of crawling. More lies: he doesn't breathe yet. He'll never breathe. (Then what is this faint noise, as of air stealthily stirred, recalling the breath of life, to those it corrodes? It's a bad example. ) But these lights that go out hissing? Is it not more likely a great crackle of laughter, at the sight of his terror and distress? To see him flooded with light, then suddenly plunged back in darkness, must strike them as irresistibly funny. But they have been there so long now, on every side. They may have made a hole in the wall, a little hole, to glue their eyes to (turn and turn about). And these lights are perhaps those they shine upon him, from time to time, in order to observe the progress he is making. But this question of lights deserves to be treated in a section apart, it is so intriguing - and at length, composedly. And so it will be, at the first opportunity, when time is not so short, and the mind more composed. (Resolution
number twenty-three. ) And in the meantime the conclusion to be drawn? That the only noises Worm has had till now are those of mouths? Correct. Not forgetting the groaning of the air beneath the burden. He's coming, that's the main thing. When on earth later on the storms rage, drowning momentarily the free expression of opinion, he'll know what is afoot: that the end of the world is not at hand. No, in the place where he is he cannot learn, the head cannot work. He knows no more than on the first day. He merely hears, and suffers, uncomprehending (that must be possible). A head has grown out of his ear, the better to enrage him, that must be it. The head is there, glued to the ear, and in it nothing but rage (that's all that matters, for the time being). It's a transformer in which sound is turned, without the help of reason, to rage and terror. (That's all that is required, for the moment. The circumvolutionisation will be seen later, when they get him out. ) Why then the human voice, rather than a hyena's howls or the clanging of a hammer? Answer: so that the shock may not be too great, when the writhings of true lips meet his gaze. (Between them they find a rejoinder to everything. ) And how they enjoy talking! (They know there is no worse torment, for one not in the conversation. ) They are numerous, all round - holding hands perhaps, an endless chain, taking turns to talk. They wheel, in jerks, so that the voice always comes from the same quarter. But often they all speak at once, they all say simultaneously the same thing exactly - but so perfectly together that one would take it for a single voice, a single mouth (if one did not know that God alone can fill the rose of the winds, without moving from his place). ("One" - but not Worm, who says nothing, knows nothing, yet. ) Similarly turn and turn about they benefit by the peep-hole (those who care to). While one speaks another peeps: the one no doubt whose voice is next due and whose remarks may possibly have reference to what he may possibly have seen - this depending on whether what he has seen has aroused his interest to the extent of appearing worthy of remark (even indirectly). But what hope has sustained them, all the time they have been thus employed? For it is difficult not to suppose them sustained by some form of hope. And what is the nature of the change they are on the look out for, gluing one eye to the hole and closing the other? They have no pedagogic purpose in view, that's definite. There is no question of imparting to him any instruction whatsoever, for the moment. This catechist's tongue, honeyed and perfidious, is the only one they know. Let him move, try and move - that's all they ask, for the moment. No matter where he goes: being at the centre, he will go towards them. So he is at the centre! There is a clue of the highest interest! (It matters little to what. ) They look, to see if he has stirred. He is nothing but a shapeless heap, without a face capable of reflecting the niceties of a torment, but
the disposition of which (its greater or lesser degree of crouch and huddledness) is no doubt expressive, for specialists, and enables them to assess the chances of its suddenly making a bound, or dragging its coils faintly away, as if stricken to death. Somewhere in the heap an eye, a wild equine eye, always open. (They must have an eye, they see him possessed of an eye. ) No matter where he goes he will go towards them: towards their song of triumph (when they know he has moved), or towards their sudden silence (when they know he has moved) - to make him think he did well to move. Or towards the voice growing softer, as if receding, to make him think he is drawing away from them, but not yet far enough (whereas he is drawing nearer, nearer and nearer). No, he can't think anything, can't judge anything. But the kind of flesh he has is good enough, will try and go where peace seems to be, drop and lie where it suffers no more (or less), or can go no further. Then the voice will begin again (low at first, then louder), coming from the quarter they want him to retreat from - to make him think he is pursued and struggle on, towards them. In this way they'll bring him to the wall - and even to the precise point where they have made other holes through which to pass their arms and seize him. (How physical all this is! ) And then, unable to go any further, because of the obstacle (and unable to go any further in any case, and not needing to go any further for the moment, because of the great silence which has fallen), he will drop. Assuming he had risen. But even a reptile can drop, after a long flight (the expression may be used without impropriety). He will drop. It will be his first corner, his first experience of the vertical support, the vertical shelter (reinforcing those of the ground). That must be something, while waiting for oblivion: to feel a prop and buckler, not only for one of one's six planes, but for two, for the first time. But Worm will never know this joy but darkly (being less than a beast) before he is restored (more or less) to that state in which he was before the beginning of his prehistory. Then they will lay hold of him and gather him into their midst. (For if they could make a small hole for the eye, then bigger ones for the arms, they can make one bigger still for the transit of Worm, from darkness to light. ) But what is the good of talking about what they will do as soon as Worm sets himself in motion (so as to gather him without fail into their midst) - since he cannot set himself in motion, though he often desires to?
(If when speaking of him one may speak of desire. And one may not, one should not. But there it is, that is the way to speak of him, that is the way to speak to him: as if he were alive, as if he could understand, as if he could desire, even if it serves no purpose - and it serves none. ) And it is a blessing for him he cannot stir, even though he suffers because of it. For it would be to sign his life-warrant, to stir from where he is, in search of a little calm and something of the
silence of old. But perhaps one day he will stir: the day when the little effort of the early stages, infinitely weak, will have become (by dint of repetition) a great effort, strong enough to tear him from where he lies. Or perhaps one day they will leave him in peace - letting go their hands, filling up the holes and departing, towards more profitable occupations, in Indian file. For a decision must be reached, the scales must tilt, to one side or the other. (No, one can spend one's life thus, unable to live, unable to bring to life, and die in vain, having done nothing, been nothing. ) It is strange they do not go and fetch him in his den, since they seem to have access to it? They dare not: the air in the midst of which he lies is not for them (and yet they want him to breathe theirs). They could set a dog on him perhaps, with instructions to drag him out. But no dog would survive there either, not for one second. With a long pole perhaps, with a hook at the end? But the place where he lies is vast (that's interesting). He is far, too far for them to reach him even with the longest pole. That tiny blur, in the depths of the pit, is he. (There he is now in a pit: no avenue will have been left unexplored. ) They say they see him. The blur is what they see. (They say the blur is he, perhaps it is. ) They say he hears them. (They don't know: perhaps he does. ) Yes, he hears: nothing else is certain. Worm hears. (Though hear is not the word. But it will do, it will have to do. ) They look down upon him then, according to the latest news: he'll have to climb to reach them. Bah, the latest news is not the last. The slopes are gentle that meet where he lies, they flatten out under him. It is not a meeting. It is not a pit. (That didn't take long: soon we'll have him perched on an eminence. ) They don't know what to say, to be able to believe in him, what to invent, to be reassured. They see nothing. They see grey (like still smoke, unbroken) where he might be (if he must be somewhere), where they have decreed he is. Into which they launch their voices, one after another, in the hope of dislodging him, hearing him stir, seeing him loom within reach of their gaffs, hooks, barbs, grapnels: saved at last, home at last. And now that's enough about them. Their usefulness is over. No, not yet, let them stay. They may still serve. Stay where they are, turning in a ring, launching their voices, through the hole (there must be a hole for the voices too). But is it them he hears? Are they really necessary that he may hear, they and kindred puppets? Enough concessions, to the spirit of geometry. He hears, that's all about it: he who is alone, and mute, lost in the smoke. (It is not real smoke, there is no fire. No matter. ) Strange hell that has no heating, no denizens. Perhaps it's paradise? Perhaps it's the light of paradise (and the solitude)? And this voice the voice of the blest interceding invisible, for the living, for the dead? All is possible. (It isn't the earth, that's all that counts: it can't be the earth. It can't be a hole in the earth, inhabited by Worm alone - or by others if you like,
huddled in a heap like him, mute, immovable. ) And this voice the voice of those who mourn them, envy them, call on them and forget them? (That would account for its incoherence. ) All is possible. (Yes, so much the worse. ) He knows it is a voice (how it is not known: nothing is known). He understands nothing it says (just a little, almost nothing). It's inexplicable, but it's necessary (it's preferable) that he should understand just a little, almost nothing: like a dog that always gets the same filth flung to it, the same orders, the same threats, the same cajoleries. That settles that. The end is in sight. But the eye: let's leave him his eye too. (It's to see with. It's to practise with, before he goes to Killarney. ) What does he do with it? He does nothing with it. The eye stays open: it's an eye without lids. No need for lids here, where nothing happens, or so little. (If he could blink he might miss the odd sight. ) If he could close it, the kind he is, he'd never open it again. Tears gush from it practically without ceasing. (Why is not known: nothing is known. ) Whether it's with rage, or whether it's with grief, the fact is there. Perhaps it's the voice that makes it weep: with rage (or some other passion), or at having to see (from time to time) some sight or other. Perhaps that's it: perhaps he weeps in order not to see. (Though it seems difficult to credit him with an initiative of this complexity. ) The rascal, he's getting humanized! He's going to lose if he doesn't watch out, if he doesn't take care. And with what could he take care? With what could he form the faintest conception of the condition they are decoying him into? With their ears, their eyes, their tears and a brainpan where anything may happen? That's his strength, his only strength: that he understands nothing, can't take thought, doesn't know what they want, doesn't know they are there, feels nothing. Ah but just a moment! He feels, he suffers: the noise makes him suffer. And he knows: he knows it's a voice. And he understands: a few expressions here and there, a few intonations. Ah it looks bad, bad. No, perhaps not. For it's they who describe him thus. Perhaps he hears nothing, suffers nothing. And this eye? More mere imagination. He hears, true (though it's they again who say it). But this can't be denied (this is better not denied). Worm hears, that's all can be said for certain. Whereas there was a time he didn't - the same Worm, according to them. He has therefore changed. That's grave (gravid). Who knows to what lengths he may be carried? No, he can be relied on. The eye too, of course, is there to put him to flight, make him take fright - badly enough to break his bonds. (They call them bonds! ) They want to deliver him. (Ah mother of God, the things one has to listen to! ) Perhaps it's tears of mirth. Well, no matter: let's drive on now to the end of the joke (we must be nearly there), and see what they have to offer him, in the way of bugaboos. Who "we"? Don't all speak at once! There's no sense in that either. All will come right, later on in
the evening, everyone gone and silence restored. In the meantime no sense in bickering about pronouns and other parts of blather. (The subject doesn't matter: there is none. ) Worm being in the singular (as it turned out), they are in the plural - to avoid confusion. (Confusion is better avoided, pending the great confounding. ) Perhaps there is only one of them: one would do the trick just as well. But he might get mixed up with his victim: that would be abominable, downright masturbation. We're getting on. Nothing much then in the way of sights for sore eyes. But who can be sure who has not been there, has not lived there? (They call that living! ) For them the spark is present, ready to burst into flame, all it needs is preaching on, to become a living torch (screams included). Then they may go silent - without having to fear an embarrassing silence (when steps are heard on graves as the saying is), genuine hell. Decidedly this eye is hard of hearing. Noises travel, traverse walls. But may the same be said of appearances? By no means, generally speaking - but the present case is rather special. But what appearances? It is always well to try and find out what one is talking about, even at the risk of being deceived. This grey to begin with: meant to be depressing no doubt. And yet there is yellow in it, pink too apparently. It's a nice grey, of the kind recommended as going with everything, urinous and warm. In it the eye can see (otherwise why the eye? ), but dimly. (That's right: no superfluous particulars, later to be controverted. ) A man would wonder where his kingdom ended: his eye strive to penetrate the gloom, and he crave for a stick, an arm, fingers apt to grasp and then release (at the right moment) a stone, stones. Or for the power to utter a cry and wait, counting the seconds, for it to come back to him. And suffer, certainly, at having neither voice nor other missile, nor limbs submissive to him, bending and unbending at the word of command. And perhaps even regret being a man, under such conditions (that is to say a head abandoned to its ancient solitary resources). But Worm suffers only from the noise which prevents him from being what he was before. (Admit the nuance! ) If it's the same Worm (and they have set their heart on it). And if it is not it makes no difference: he suffers as he has always suffered, from this noise that prevents nothing. (That must be feasible. ) In any case this grey can hardly be said to add to his misery: brightness would be better suited for that purpose, since he cannot close his eye. He cannot avert it either, nor lower it, nor lift it up. It remains trained on the same tiny field, a stranger forever to the boons and blessings of accommodation. But perhaps one day brightness will come (little by little, or rapidly, or in a sudden flood). And then it is hard to see how Worm could stay. And it is hard to see how he could go. But impossible situations cannot be prolonged, unduly, the fact is well known. Either they disperse, or else they turn out to be possible after all (it's only
to be expected). Not to mention other possibilities. Let there then be light: it will not necessarily be disastrous. Or let there be none: we'll manage without it. But these lights (in the plural) which rear aloft, swell, sweep down and go out hissing, reminding one of the naja? Perhaps the moment has come to throw them into the balance and have done with this tedious equipoise, at last. No, the moment has not yet come, to do that. Ha. None of your hoping here, that would spoil everything. Let others hope for him (outside, in the cool, in the light) if they have a wish to. Or if they are obliged to. Or if they are paid to. (Yes, they must be paid to hope. ) They hope nothing, they hope things will continue as they are. It's a soft job. Their thoughts wander as they call on Jude. It's praying they are, praying for Worm, praying to Worm, to have pity: pity on them, pity on Worm. (They call that pity! Merciful God, the things one has to put up with! ) Fortunately it all means nothing to him. Currish obscurity! To thy kennel, hell-hound! Grey. What else? Calm, calm. There must be something else, to go with this grey, which goes with everything. There must be something of everything here, as in every world: a little of everything. Mighty little, it seems. Beside the point in any case. What balls is going on before this impotent crystalline: that's all that needs to be imagined. A face! How encouraging that would be! If it could be a face, every now and then! Always the same, methodically varying its expression, doggedly demonstrating all a true face can do, without ever ceasing to be recognizable as such. Passing from unmixed joy to the sullen fixity of marble, via the most characteristic shades of disenchantment. How pleasant that would be! Worth ten of Saint Anthony's pig's arse! Passing by at the right distance, the right level (say once a month, that's not exorbitant) - full face and profile, like criminals. It might even pause, open its mouth, raise its eyebrows, bless its soul, stutter, mutter, howl, groan and finally shut up (the chaps clenched to cracking point - or fallen, to let the dribble out). That would be nice! A presence at last! A visitor, faithful - with his visiting-day, his visiting-hour. Never staying too long (it would be wearisome) or too little (it would not be long enough), but just the necessary time for hope to be born, grow, languish and die. (Say five minutes. ) And even should the notion of time dawn on his darkness, at this punctual image of the countenance everlasting, who could blame him? (Involving very naturally that of space: they have taken to going hand in hand, in some quarters, it's safer. ) And the game would be won, lost and won. He'd be somehow suddenly among us, among the rendezvous.
