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more dim than the present. What advantage will accrue from its
He scanned the innumerable books which lined the walls and he
realisation:1 The old woman stumps further and further away,
must have said, something like Rastignac, "Science! It is up to
she stops, pulls at a grey lock of hair which escapes from her
us." Then he went and took the first book from the first shelf on the
kerchief. She walks, she was there, now she is here . . . I don't
far right; he opened to the first page, with a feeling of respect and
know where I am any more: do I see her motions, or do I foresee
fear mixed with an unshakable decision. Today he has reached
them? I can no longer distinguish present from future and yet it
"L"-"K" after "J," "L" after "K." He has passed brutally from the
lasts, it happens little by little; the old woman advances in the
study of coleopterae to the quantum theory, from a work on
deserted street, shuffling her heavy, mannish brogues. This is
Tamerlaine to a Catholic pamphlet against Darwinism, he has never
time, time laid bare, coming slowly into existence, keeping us
been disconcerted for an instant. He has read everything; he has
waiting, and when it does come making us sick because we
stored up in his head most of what anyone knows about
realise it's been there for a long time. The old woman reaches the
parthenogenesis, and half the arguments against vivisection. There
corner of the street, no more than a bundle of black clothes. All
is a universe behind and before him. And the day is approaching
right then, it's new, she wasn't there a little while ago. But it's a
when closing the last book on the last shelf on the far left: he will
tarnished deflowered newness, which can never surprise. She is
say to himself, "Now what?"
going to turn the corner, she turns during an eternity.
This is his lunch time; innocently he eats a slice of bread
I tear myself from the window and stumble across the room; I
and a bar of Gala Peter. His eyes are lowered and I can study at
glue myself against the looking glass. I stare at myself, I disgust
leisure his fine, curved lashes, like a woman's. When he breathes he
myself: one more eternity. Finally I flee from my image and fall on
gives off an aroma of old tobacco mixed with the sweet scent of
the bed. I watch the ceiling, I'd like to sleep.
chocolate.
Calm. Calm. In can no longer feel the slipping, the rustling of
time. I see pictures on the ceiling. First rings of light, then crosses.
Friday, 3.00 -p.m.
They flutter. And now another picture is forming, at the bottom of
A little more and I would have fallen into the lure of the
my eyes this time. It is a great, kneeling animal. I see its front paws
mirror. I avoid it only to fall into that of the window: indolent,
and pack saddle. The rest is in fog. But I recognize it: it is a camel
arms dangling, I go to the window. The Building Yard, the
I saw at Marrakesh, tethered to a stone. He knelt and stood up six
Fence, the Old Station the Old Station, the Fence, the Building
times running; the urchins laughed and shouted at him.
Yard. I give such a big yawn that tears come into my eyes. I
It was wonderful two years ago: all I had to do was close to
hold my pipe in my right hand and my tobacco in my left. I 30
31
There are many cases where even these scraps have disap-
my eyes and my head would start buzzing like a bee-hive: I could
peared: nothing is left but words: I could still tell stories, tell
conjure faces, trees, houses, a Japanese girl in Kamaishiki washing
them too well (as far as anecdotes are concerned, I can stand up to
herself naked in a wooden tub, a dead Russian, emptied of blood
anyone except ship's officers and professional people) but these are
by a great, gaping wound, all his blood in a pool beside him. I
only the skeletons. There's the story of a person who does this,
could recapture the taste of kouskouss, the smell of olive oil which
does that, but it isn't I, I have nothing in common with him. He
fills the streets of Burgos at noon, the scent of fennel floating
travels through countries I know no more about than if I had never
through the Tetuan streets, the piping of Greek shepherds; I was
touched. This joy was used up a long time ago. Will it be reborn been there. Sometimes, in my story, it happens that I pronounce
today? these fine names you read in atlases, Aranjuez or Canterbury. New
images are born in me, images such as people create from books
A torrid sun moves stiffly in my head like a magic lantern
who have never travelled. My words are dreams, that is all.
slide. A fragment of blue sky follows; after a few jolts it becomes
For a hundred dead stories there still remain one or two living
motionless. I am all golden within. From what Moroccan (or
ones. I evoke these with caution, occasionally, not too often, for
Algerian or Syrian) day did this flash suddenly detach itself? I
fear of wearing them out, I fish one out, again I see the scenery,
let myself Row into the past.
the characters, the attitudes. I stop suddenly: there is a flaw, I
Meknes. What was that man from the hills like the one
have seen a word pierce through the web of sensations. I suppose
who frightened us in the narrow street between the Berdaine
that this word will soon take the place of several images I love.
mosque and that charming square shaded by a mulberry tree? He
I must stop quickly and think of something else; I don't want to
came towards us, Anny was on my right. Or on my left?
tire my memories. In vain; the next time I evoke them a good part [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]