The island was completely deserted; Dan Yack had explored all over it several times.
Nothing ever happened.
There was nothing but the vast unfolding of nature, with its storms, its blustery winds and, in calm weather, the palpable ebb and flow that washed the floating ice, the flotilla of ice-floes, the squadron of icebergs away from the shore and back in again. Everything moved to and fro in perpetual motion: the great continental clouds, like a ship’s crew in seaman’s jerseys, worked their way across a sky that was concave, a deserted sports drome; the humped backs of the hollowed-out waves; the punctual sun that turned and turned, silent as a gramophone record on which nothing had been recorded, dumb as a virgin disc.
There were no animals on the island. Only a little snow petrel that flew over at regular intervals, quite low, gliding round in a circle, describing figures of eight, while its head and its lidless eye swivelled in all directions, before it flew out to sea again with long, melancholy strokes of the wing, strong, rhythmical strokes, returning whence it came without so much as a cry.
[Dan Yack, Cendras, B.]
Thursday, 2 March 2017
...of unease
A profound unease held the room in thrall.
The lamps began to dim, for the first time in many long months. At last the long-awaited dawn was filling the one and only window.
A few seconds later a ray of sunlight struck Dan Yack’s head, and his monocle began to blaze.
It was as swift as it was brief. And not one of the three men gathered together in the room perceived it, for, behind the monocle, Dan Yack’s eye was shut. He was thinking bitterly: Bari chose between us, and attached himself to disease. Pfaugh!
Still Lamont lay there like a dead man and Arkadie Goischman was contemplating the shadow of his nose on the partition screen.
Bari was the only one who noticed the luminous bee that flew away as rapidly as it had entered.
Already dusk was drawing a curtain over the window and, outside, total darkness had descended once more.
The light of the lamps intensified a little.
A profound unease held the room in thrall. Not even the ticking of a clock was to be heard.
André Lamont and Dan Yack, in truth, no longer had anything to say to each other. As for Arkadie Goischman, he was squinting down at his nose.
’The sun! The sun!’ cried Ivan Sabakov, rushing into the room like a madman. ‘Danny, did you see it?’
This voice struck Dan Yack to the heart. He jumped to his feet. He wanted to say something. He dropped his monocle and it sparkled on the floor like a huge tear.
Dan Yack sat down again.
His head was spinning.
He could not say a word.
[Dan Yack, Cendras, B.]
The lamps began to dim, for the first time in many long months. At last the long-awaited dawn was filling the one and only window.
A few seconds later a ray of sunlight struck Dan Yack’s head, and his monocle began to blaze.
It was as swift as it was brief. And not one of the three men gathered together in the room perceived it, for, behind the monocle, Dan Yack’s eye was shut. He was thinking bitterly: Bari chose between us, and attached himself to disease. Pfaugh!
Still Lamont lay there like a dead man and Arkadie Goischman was contemplating the shadow of his nose on the partition screen.
Bari was the only one who noticed the luminous bee that flew away as rapidly as it had entered.
Already dusk was drawing a curtain over the window and, outside, total darkness had descended once more.
The light of the lamps intensified a little.
A profound unease held the room in thrall. Not even the ticking of a clock was to be heard.
André Lamont and Dan Yack, in truth, no longer had anything to say to each other. As for Arkadie Goischman, he was squinting down at his nose.
’The sun! The sun!’ cried Ivan Sabakov, rushing into the room like a madman. ‘Danny, did you see it?’
This voice struck Dan Yack to the heart. He jumped to his feet. He wanted to say something. He dropped his monocle and it sparkled on the floor like a huge tear.
Dan Yack sat down again.
His head was spinning.
He could not say a word.
[Dan Yack, Cendras, B.]
...of musical thought
‘Well then, in your opinion, why is my dog so attached to your friend?’ he asked Ivan Sabakov.
Ivan replied: ‘Bari is an intelligent dog. An animal is often more sensitive than a human being. Besides, André is an artist, that is to say, a human being who is much closer to the true nature of things than the ordinary run of men. And don’t forget that at the moment he is working. Certainly he must be giving off a lot of vibrations. Musical thought carries a long way, even when it is unformulated, embryonic. In this state, something physical must already enter into its constitution, something analogous to and parallel with the laws of interference which govern the speed of the propagation of light, the vibrations of the ether and all those waves of motion and heat, of which the most elementary is sound. A dog’s hearing is very acute. It’s one of his most highly developed senses. Perhaps Bari can already hear the music, or rather, the elementary rhythms that are condensing around this human spirit in gestation, the phrases and triplets which accumulate above this head in labour, the tonalities and modalities which crowd in and jostle one another in an effort to reach Lamont’s eardrum and became rejuvenated. Certain rhythms are very ancient. Tenaries, for instance, date back to the beginning of the world. They are eternal. They must make the air vibrate, just as prayers do as they pass over. I noticed that Bari often pricks up his ears, as if he could hear something passing that we don not perceive. Probably he loves music.’
[Dan Yack, Cendras, B.]
Ivan replied: ‘Bari is an intelligent dog. An animal is often more sensitive than a human being. Besides, André is an artist, that is to say, a human being who is much closer to the true nature of things than the ordinary run of men. And don’t forget that at the moment he is working. Certainly he must be giving off a lot of vibrations. Musical thought carries a long way, even when it is unformulated, embryonic. In this state, something physical must already enter into its constitution, something analogous to and parallel with the laws of interference which govern the speed of the propagation of light, the vibrations of the ether and all those waves of motion and heat, of which the most elementary is sound. A dog’s hearing is very acute. It’s one of his most highly developed senses. Perhaps Bari can already hear the music, or rather, the elementary rhythms that are condensing around this human spirit in gestation, the phrases and triplets which accumulate above this head in labour, the tonalities and modalities which crowd in and jostle one another in an effort to reach Lamont’s eardrum and became rejuvenated. Certain rhythms are very ancient. Tenaries, for instance, date back to the beginning of the world. They are eternal. They must make the air vibrate, just as prayers do as they pass over. I noticed that Bari often pricks up his ears, as if he could hear something passing that we don not perceive. Probably he loves music.’
[Dan Yack, Cendras, B.]
...of melancholia
Coming out behind the Winter Palace, Dan Yack suddenly fell silent. He felt uneasy again. His legs sagged. He was overwhelmed by fatigue. An infinite sadness took hold of him, drained him, blew him up again, oppressed him. He staggered as far as the Bridge of Sighs. He dumped himself down right in the middle of the hog’s back, careless of the carriages that brushed past him. A gardavoï rushed up to him, then, recognising this famous reveller who was the envy of all of St Petersburg, discreetly withdrew.
Dan Yack experienced the sensation of rising up into the air like an observation balloon. A cable held him back, painfully, like something anchored in the marrow of his bones. A weight. A steam-winch creaked. His nerves were stretched to breaking-point. His heels left the ground, fell back, then rose again, very gently.
Little by little, this movement became more pronounced. It affected his calf muscles, his shins, his knees and, finally, his thighs.
Now Dan Yack was marking time on the spot and flapping his arms. Even his head was wagging. It seemed to inflate and float away on its own.
[Dan Yack, Cendras, B.]
Dan Yack experienced the sensation of rising up into the air like an observation balloon. A cable held him back, painfully, like something anchored in the marrow of his bones. A weight. A steam-winch creaked. His nerves were stretched to breaking-point. His heels left the ground, fell back, then rose again, very gently.
Little by little, this movement became more pronounced. It affected his calf muscles, his shins, his knees and, finally, his thighs.
Now Dan Yack was marking time on the spot and flapping his arms. Even his head was wagging. It seemed to inflate and float away on its own.
[Dan Yack, Cendras, B.]
Wednesday, 1 February 2017
...of codes
Just personal effects in the small Renault with the Paris numero di codice that ends with 75 on its bottom and Ⓕ for Feind in la Germania which makes no difference to an Abwesenheit die bedeutet merely an absence of belief in anyone or whether any god of love has blind eyes or twenty breasts and plus like Diana of Ephesus or a beard, androgynous and indifferent to the death of the feminoid son and transcendental father up and down the agro-lunar dramma del agnosticismo with all ingredients social historical touristic in the freedom of the road through and the simple instructions of the code de la route so poor in parole uninteresting to semiologists but nevertheless understood immediately as the arrows eat their own tails point left go up go down inside white discs, red discs, blue discs crossed with white bars black bars no parking no entry no overtaking end of no overtaking Umleitung Parkplatz Bitte sauber verlassen hooting twinkling left or right in orange brake-lighting in red ahead or flooding dipping swerving stopping to wave someone across with a courteous gesture unless to shake the fist in a smooth swift silent language understood by everyone each protected in a glass and metal box so that no-one can get at you.
[Between, Brooke-Rose, C.]
[Between, Brooke-Rose, C.]
...of a marital quarrel
Marital quarrels can occur above or below the verbal level as well as within it. In a pressurised hum of silence Something picks a tin from our private trolley and hands it to me for punching. In the same pressurised hum I shake my head, replace the tin on the trolley, beckon to the air-hostess and transmit my order with a gesture into the pressurised hum of silence. The air-hostess inclines her head with courtesy and a pleased look as if receiving a compliment. Something shakes her head and wags an index finger negatively. In my collection of silences this one takes the prize for sheer pressure. The atoms of our will-powers ensues. Bombarded atoms whirl around each other, emitting particles of pain, withdraw, get reinforced with fresh electrons, re-enter, begin again. I win. Someone always wins. The air-hostess brings glasses and a long red drink and Something meekly sips at it. My silence says I have proved my point, her silence says don’t mention it, my silence says smile, Something, her’s says you smile first, my victor’s silence does it easily, her vanquished silence ruefully but smiles. I put my meridians around hers and we merge into one almost perfect sphere, despite my excrescent scar, my individual flan-pudding in the middle of my belly.
A feeling of no movement wakes me, no vibration, no hum of silence even. Framed in the circular window, houses and hedges pass. We fly almost at ground level, along a road. The silence bounces with the sounds of people in the houses loving, quarreling, calling their children in from the gardens where they throw their high-pitched voices like bright coins along the sunlight.
[Such, Brooke-Rose, C.]
A feeling of no movement wakes me, no vibration, no hum of silence even. Framed in the circular window, houses and hedges pass. We fly almost at ground level, along a road. The silence bounces with the sounds of people in the houses loving, quarreling, calling their children in from the gardens where they throw their high-pitched voices like bright coins along the sunlight.
[Such, Brooke-Rose, C.]
...of service
In the time before his loss Don Juan actually had taken it for granted that he would be waited on. Every new acquaintance soon came to see himself as part of Don Juan’s worldwide cohort of servants. Without a moment’s hesitation Don Juan would send him to get a book, medicine, some object left behind at a previous way station. No explicit order was required; a mere remark was enough: “I forgot my hat in…” (On the other hand, Don Juan also never asked for anything: his observation simply had to be followed up on.) In the twinkling of an eye he could become the other person’s servant, whether that person was someone he knew or a stranger. And how he could serve, or rather, be of service! Each time it was a wordless and unbidden fetching, hopping to it, and giving a leg up, unobtrusive and without any servile bowing and scraping, and once done, as if in passing, it immediately became anonymous, as he himself took on an anonymous quality as a helper. And his temporary identity as a servant or aide was always noted by the servants without surprise. Or rather, it went almost unnoticed, and likewise elicited no expressions of gratitude, no remuneration. Yet his effect on those he assisted in this way was more than that of a silent servant, incomparably more.
[Don Juan, Handke, P.]
[Don Juan, Handke, P.]
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