Stefan

If with each word we win a victory over nothingness, it is only the better to endure its reign. We die in proportion with the words which we fling around us...Those who speak have no secrets. And we all speak. We betray ourselves, we exhibit our heart; executioner of the unspeakable, each of us labors to destroy all the mysteries, beginning with our own. And if we meet others, it is to degrade ourselves together in a race to the void, whether in the exchange of ideas, schemes or confessions. Curiosity has provoked not only the first fall but the countless ones of every day of our lives. Life is only that impatience to fall, to fail, to prostitute the soul's virginal solitudes by dialogue, ageless and everyday negation of Paradise. Man should listen only to himself in the endless ecstasy of the intransmissible. Word, should create words for his own silences and assents audible only to his regrets. But he is the chatterbox of the universe; he speaks in the name of others; his self loves the plural. And anyone who speaks in the name of others is always an impostor.
There is only the artist whose lie is not a total one, for he invents only himself. Outside of the surrender to the incommunicable, the suspension amid our mute and unconsoled anxieties, life is merely a fracas on an unmapped terrain, and the universe a geometry striken with epilepsy.
I have dreamed of distant springs, of a sun shining on nothing but seafoam and the oblivion of my birth, of a sun opposed to the earth and to this disease of finding nothing anywhere but the desire to be somewhere else. The earthly fate-who has inflicted it upon us, who has chained us to this morose matter, a petrified tear against which-born of time-our tears shatter, whereas it has fallen, immemorial, from God’s first shudder?I have loathed the planet’s noon’s and midnights, I have longed for a world without weather, without hours and the fear that swells them, I have hated the sights of mortals under the weight of ages. Where is the moment without end and without desire, and that primal vacancy insensitive to the presentiments of disaster and of life? I have sought for the geography of Nothingness, of unknown seas and another sun -pure of the scandal of life-bearing rays - I have sought for the rocking of a skeptical ocean in which islands and axioms are drowned, the vast liquid narcotic, tepid and sweet and tired of knowledge…This earth-sin of the Creator! But I no longer want to expiate other’s sins. I want to be cured of my begetting in an agony outside the continents, in some fluid desert, in an impersonal shipwreck.