Dire I et II :

Un phare s'allume au large son rythme est irritant. Un passage de lumire rapide et un autre ensuite trs lent. Celui-ci est insupportable. On dirait que la lumire va rester fixe, qu'il va se passer l-bas quelque chose, l'clatement de cette lumire par exemple, qui s'en irait par morceaux sur la surface de l'eau, s'enfoncerait, illuminant de nouvelles couches et continuerait briller au fond, en donnant la surface une teinte ple et translucide. Le reste du phare, dchir, une ruine lugubre sur l'tendue.

Plus penser pas entendre. Ni vent ni pluie qui terrasse contre terre, sous les herbes mouilles dgoulinantes. Dmission depuis tant de mois. ne plus savoir attendre. J'attends dans le vaste, haletant, draisonnable, pendant de longs moments atroces, ne plus pouvoir se rsoudre la patience.

Le monde crie, ce monde-ci, le monde maintenant, au-del des murs des chambres chaudes, au-del de nous lis. A travers les voix revient le grondement plus fort, plus puissant pour nous envahir. Appeler ta force pour supporter, te sortir de la douceur, t'apporter la duret cruelle latente autour de nous. Qui se suicide. Qui se spare. Toi et moi arrachs. Capitule, vivante encore. Je suis entre le tremblement dsespr et l'apaisement qui plane, loign, silencieux. Entran de l'un l'autre par la peur.

Face moi la ville. Descente de la rue en pente, calme et fuyante, penche lgrement en arrire. Arrive l'intrieur pour ne pas la voir de haut, sur les hauteurs, des lieux un peu loigns rassurants. Pntration immdiate dans la chaleur opaque. Ma lance trbuchante sur tous les obstacles vivants, sur la duret d'ensemble.

Voil enfouie comme la ville toute rvolte, celle qui grandissait qui montait, souterraine d'abord, de toute la ville, des gens, sourd bourdonnement aussi, l'intrieur, le long des nerfs, sans arrt, norme bruit croassement aux oreilles. Assez de toutes ces violences continues. Elles s'apaisent en sourdine, alors qu'elles devraient exploser l en bas, sous nos yeux - quelle explosion -- un dferlement soudain de tout, tout soudain dchan, tous sens, tous mouvements, et cris vers quoi, sans limite cette tuerie. Beaux crimes commis brusquement pour la violence toute seule au centre, dans la chair retourne autour du couteau des pinces des grilles. De nouvelles rptitions enfin. Rapprendre aussi maintenant les aigus, par les pointes, barres de dents serres refermes sur un doigt, et la main mutile caresse malgr tout le front silencieux cras -- hurlant du besoin de dchirer encore.

Et puis le silence froid des chocs enfouis. On ne peut plus dceler l'origine, le point de dpart. Qui parle ici, sans que je puisse faire cesser ces paroles de haine et de peur, qui commance tous ces gestes d'impuissance mon bras droit, lev trs haut, tir plus que d'habitude, les doigts trs loin au bout qui se dcident griffer l'air pais. Il n'y a rien ramener, rien s'unir, pas mme quelques vagues lgrets. Repli du bras qui garde sa longueur impressionnante et reste tendu, tmoin d'un effort ridicule. Me joindre ces ordres qui partent de moi, tellement dangereux de rester en arrire, se laisser distancer par ses mots, ses souffrances. Pas de retard derrire eux, haletant toujours, leur rapidit. Ils arrivent la fin de ma vie avant moi. Je les vois l-bas s'emmler. S'emmler et te prendre bras-le-corps, te jeter dans le fleuve qui ne peut servir rien d'autre. Tu te dfends mal, tu les repousses par les paules, les pieds agripps au rebord, tu ne tiens pas longtemps contre eux, tu finis par draper glisser sur la pierre humide et tomber lourdement.

Aujourd'hui seule dans ces murs, aujourd'hui dans ces rues. Pas un seul pas sans baigner dans le soleil, sortie pour un moment la rencontre -- courte pose et rpit parfois, regarder les choses, voir avec tendresse les mouvements, les courbes lentes droules dans l'espace, fond gris et limpide, ciel de fin d'hiver avec des images naissantes des rappels confus.

..
Je dure. Trembler de cette nuit glace. Ne plus rien trouver pour couvrir tidir cette peur. Non ce n'est pas encore le corps, dans cet achvement, pas encore. Je refuse sans force quelle force avoir contre cette destruction mes blessures infectes sans cesse avec tellement de soi.

Par toi isol de la rvolte, des cris trangers. Douleur de n'tre plus atteint par la distraction, aid par les voix. Soutenir encore la tte avec les genoux. Le front vers la terre, le regard dpouill sur le sol transparent livide.

Je ne prvois plus. Je veux m'endormir, maintenant, partir de ce moment, si c'est possible ne plus dplacer les choses, ne plus remonter au soleil. Plus d'obstacles le chemin plat et lise, sans colline sans rocher.

Vouloir l'impossible gmissements qui s'enflent nouveau au ras du sol pour relever un visage durci le renverser sur les paules, l'oeil ouvert sur des nuages.

Sur la ville, qui s'approche des paupires, avec son dard de fer, transperce mes yeux jusqu'au sanglot.

Calme gagn ce prix chaque jour, au prix de chaque dmission de chaque refus. Droute l'horizon d'une ville, d'un ocan.

Simplement l o on ne peut plus aller. Le fleuve franchi, de l'autre ct la mort douce, le souffle devenu calme le corps si las on flotte au-dessus comme une me, on devient tout azur. Qui touche encore terre, qui a encore peur du froid.

Misre plus grande des jambes lies, mises aux fers le fond de la cale, le fond d'un tombeau.

Il donc :
Il coule il se cogne heurt aux murs il se ramasse pitine il ne va pas loin quatre pas vers la gauche nouveau mur il tend les bras - s'appuie appuie fort frotte sa tte encore plus fort le front l le front fait mal frotte plus fort s'irrite pas le front de l'intrieur pleure

un corps l qui s'exerce la douleur comme s'il n'en avait pas assez de cete souffrance - chaque instant par flots par vague immense s'essayant au drisoire de l'exercer

murs fictifs aussi murs sans ncessit - non seulement voir du ct de l'invisible prsent ici face au corps dmuni bras immobiles balayant pourtant l'espace autour sans rencontrer de support ou prendre appui attache provisoire rien qu'un instant pour ralentir son souffle ralentir les battements s'apaiser ce corps cherchant la place le creux o se refondre encore chaleur rompue et froid du monde autour sa place ou position incertaine inscrire contre le manque les heurts du jour

pour l'instant si l'on veut joue entre en scne le corps parlant mots par rsonance se fraient des voies par flux travers les couches de mots dpt horizontal au fond de quoi

parfois s'chappe s'isole solidifi un mot mur l'intrieur n'chappe pas il crie hurle toujours mme mot se tord touffe sans expulsion ni crachat ni vomissure brlure lente foudroyante

voix silence souterrain

profondeurs calmes

rompre

surgir encore du sol plissements et fractures ruptures des paisseurs surabondance des couches en difficult d'tre au jour sortir au visible l'coute corps s'loignant toujours dsir au-devant la parole d'atteindre un mot lente traverse

ou projet expuls

ou vomi en mallable dire l'veil

bouche ouverte enfin dsesprant afflux douleur

Carnets ?:
Tu es l devant moi. Je ne te saisis pas. Jessaie depuis des jours et des jours, tu vois. Tu es lourd, inerte. Je te regarde. Je te parle. Ta vie est une boule de chewing-gum. Jen prends un tout petit bout et je tire, et je suis oblige de lcher prise au bout dun moment, car cest bien inutile. Tu penses A quoi a peut te servir dessayer. Tu voudrais comprendre, hein ? Laisse-moi tranquille. Je sais bien, tu nes pas de celles qui veulent faire quelque chose, changer quelque chose. Tu prends tout comme a te tombe sous la main. Tu veux tout voir, voir lucidement. Mais avec moi a ne sert rien. Laissemoi tranquille. Tu vois, je sais tout de mme un petit peu ce quil se passe dans ta tte en ce moment. Cest vrai, je nai rien envie de changer. Mais, tu vois, tu pses trop lourd en face de moi. Dhabitude, jpuise vite les gens. Certains pensent quon na jamais fini de connatre les gens, que

cest impossible. Eh bien, tu sais, ils se trompent. Il ny a pas de roman faire, jamais. Des schmas, tu crois ? Tu penses que je classe les gens ? Oui, a marrive lorsque je me mets distance. Quand on vit avec quelquun, quand on fait lamour avec lui, on na pas le temps de classer. Ce nest pas possible de le faire. On vit tout de suite, sans dpasser le moment. Toi tu mchappes. Quelquefois je tire sur le fil, et il se casse, il reste dans mes mains. Je le vois, mais il ne sert plus rien. Je ne comprends toujours pas. Je ne sais rien de toi, ou si peu. On sest vus pendant deux ans dans ce caf, sans se parler, en se regardant souvent. Un soir tu tes dcid. Jtais seule une table au fond. Je tai regard longtemps. Au bout dun moment tu es venu tasseoir ma table. On na pour ainsi dire pas parl. Je navais rien te dire, du moins beaucoup moins de choses que je me limaginais. Au bout de deux ans, cest presque normal que tu sois l. Tu avais bu beaucoup dj. Jai eu envie de toi presque tout de suite. Tu es beau. Jaime ton visage, ton corps long, tes cheveux. Quand parfois tu tais assis une table devant moi, dans ce caf, jai souvent eu une grande envie de passer ma mains dans tes cheveux, de les caresser. Une couleur trs rare. Tu tes lev et tu mas dit : Venez. On a fait lamour. Tu fais trs bien lamour. Ce quil y a eu dtrange, ce sont les gestes que tu as faits avec une si grande tendresse. Peut-tre que cest cela au dpart que je nai pas saisi. Je ne sais vraiment rien de toi. Tu es ici depuis quatre ans, peu prs. Tu es mari ? Tu as un petit garon. Tu bois. Tu nas pas lair de vivre avec ta femme. Tu as crit des essais, des pices de thtre, des romans pornographiques. Il ny a eu dailleurs que ceux-l de publis. Tu vgtes dans un travail idiot, tu fais du syndicalisme. Tout a ne veut rien dire, ou si peu. Cela dpend de tant de choses, lordre par exemple, dans lequel on les numre. Tu vois que je ne sais rien. O en es-tu ? Tu en as assez, nest-ce pas ? Tu te tranes, non ? Tu sors de ton travail, et puis questce que tu fais ? Le temps darriver au quartier, il est peu prs huit heures. Tu manges nimporte o ; tu viens ici prendre un caf, une bire ; et puis tu vas ailleurs, tu bois ; jusqu quelle heure ? Peuttre que tu ne rentres pas souvent dormi ; ou alors tu rentres ; mais o ? Chez ta femme, chez une femme. Je ne sais mme pas. De temps en temps tu vas au thtre. Je tai mme vu assez souvent quand je jouais dans un thtre de quartier. Toutes ces questions, au lieu de les secouer dans ma tte, je devrais peut-tre te les poser, tarracher petit petit des signes. Mais a ne sert rien, nest-ce pas. Cest a, dans le fond, tout seul. Nous sommes pareils. Tu sais trs bien le fire, avec tes silences. Moi jessaie quelquefois de loublier. Toi tu noublies pas. Peut-tre que tu voudrais le faire parfois, non ? Le soir, quand tu bois, est-ce que tu voudrais vraiment ne plus y penser, toi aussi. Ta prsence et la mienne seulement. Cest tout. Il ny a encore tellement de jours et de nuits passer.

Danielle Collobert 'I have the impression that I am experiencing a death. I no longer have a centernot that it moves around inside me, in constant, even perpetual motionbut no localizing of it is even possible any more.' -- Danielle Collobert About: Danielle Collobert was a French author, poet and journalist, born in Rostrenen, Brittany, on 23 July 1940. Her mother, a teacher, was obliged to live in a neighbouring village, and thus, Danielle grew up at her grandparents' house, where her mother and her aunt would return whenever they so could. Both entered into the French Resistance. In 1961, she engaged in the FLN and was involved in missions in Algeria. After a self-imposed exile from May to August 1962 in Italy, she returned to collaborate with the Algerian magazine, Rvolution Africaine, until it stopped being published during the Presidency of Ahmed Ben Bella. After rejection by Les ditions de Minuit, her cause was supported by Raymond Queneau, which led to Gallimard publishing Meurtre, in 1964. After joining the Writers' Union in May 1968, and soon after turning up in Czechoslovakia during the Soviet backlash to the Prague Spring, she would travel near continuously from 1970 to 1976. Her travels would strongly influence her later writings. In 1978, she asked Uccio Esposito-Torrigiani to translate her last work, the ironically titled Survie (Survival), into Italian; reportedly, she wanted it published as quickly as possible. Survie came out at the end of April 1978, and Danielle Collobert would die by suicide, on her birthday, three months later, in a hotel on the rue Dauphine in Paris. An experimental writer, Collobert wrote in a haunting, pessimistic, tense and stark style of 'prose poems.' Her work showed an obsession with death as the destination of humankind, the ambiguity of gender, travel and madness.

from 'Reading Danielle Collobert' 'Danielle Collobert explores the very slight possibilities of love, the alluring ambiguities of gender, perhaps also schizophrenia, in any case impersonalization, and above all death as the source, foundation, and destination of all living. She confronts these themes head on, all the while generalizing her approach by asking whether writing about them is really possible. For Collobert, everything that is mortal begins with the I. Her writing grapples from the beginning with subjectivity; she seeks an exit from its grip. Interestingly, Colloberts attempt to impersonalize her own I dismissed as meaningless chronological filler, a negligible time of what was initially political. 'After this period, her impersonalizing quest became essentially literary as well as geographical. She began taking countless trips, both inside herself and to remote foreign countries. On some inner voyages, she in fact ventures no less far abroad. Such results from drug-taking, as evinced by the Notebooks. She records her hallucinogenic experiences with the curiosity, if not quite the maniacal precision, of Henri Michaux. Acid electroshock, she writes for example, variations on the real deep // following the preceding state this time very good no real violent anxiety just at the moment of trying to write felt the sensation of doubling government of the unconscious speaking with clarity. This path at once to herself and away from herself grew very steep, as she climbed the mountain of words. It was of no return.' -- John Taylor, Context

1960 January --I don't ever want to learn anything again --just people --I really only get close to them in bed - their nakedness - essential ---to understand - grasp by means of gestures - looks - more than with words - already so many men ...

February --I've been walking for a long time -- it's 9:30 - it's cold I rarely see streets or people at this hour in this neighborhood the houses are mute -- people pass quickly - closed walking tightly -- don't know how I got to this neighborhood - slept at J.'s and walked all the way here -- like it follows logically - strange --looking at a long and empty day -- nervous ---there's that exhibit at the Musee d'art moderne to kill time, not out of love --that cold strange room last night - seeing myself again in all the bedrooms - dislocated -blurred -- bodiless inside those walls -- maybe a little heat remaining ---sudden silence -- cold -- and all of a sudden solitude returns -- bad --

March --Such a strange night -- on the Quai des Fleurs -- I've been living here for a few days -- very nice apartment -- They're sleeping -- the table faces the window where I write -- the Seine -- the lights -- water -- calm came back -- like glancing crystal in the water -- rising and falling -- as real as my hand -- my face in the pane -- the Seine's reflections disrupting the lamplight's opacity -- like crossing dream with reality -- and then a car passes -- from light to opacity -- disappearance ---tranquility -- very rare peacefulness - after days of emptiness -- empty enough to put off getting up -- because of the emptiness itself -- and after

-- completely futile efforts to fill in ---why despite appearances I go to such lengths to achieve this feeling emptiness -- of discomfort -- as though every gesture --every movement were bringing me nearer to death ---the sensation of emptiness disappeared in that orgasmic moment -* --I have possibly never been so far into that solitude as these last months -- it still might not be enough -- there is a vague form of stability left here -- of security -- some doubt about what I can stand ---more wandering -- add leaving the country -- breaking all bonds -- or whatever -- being broke in a country I don't know -- maybe ---probably an illusion -- equating being alone in a room for days -- and going off somewhere --

November --he just left -- when he leaves I never know when I'll see him again -- always chance encounters -- or nearly -- today I asked myself what little errors we've let come between us -- I don't know yet -- I can barely guess ---why such tenderness in his gestures -- after -- where there is usually distance ---don't be taken in by tenderness -- protect yourself from it -- I'm sucked in too easily -- his presence I already live too much in these days -- not enough resistance now -- or irony --

December --I am calm -- finally without anxiety -- a certain balance ---Y. -- circle around his presence -- no more severing -- or waiting -- calm -- a kind of delight -also -- being with him -- finally this is a story I like -- I feel good ---but when I'm like this I don't do anything -- unable to write a word -- I only write in an anxious state (oh sure)* -- or in times like that -- ideas for novels arrive -- the story of the port for example -- stupid -- the novel is basically a pacific creation -- that releases what's essential -sensation of well-being allows time to stretch out -- necessary to the novel -- whereas the anxiety produces something strong -- complete -- at once -- no going beyond -- (?)* momentary fixity -in the anxious state -*

--totally out of it -- what am I doing here -- with these kids -- feels like sweet and well-behaved girls -- never been so isolated in the middle of a group -- almost peculiar ---get out of here at the first possible moment -- get away from it -- before the end of resistance -of rebellion -- before boredom -- exhaustion

1961 February --Algeria 2 -- as if this is really the beginning for me ---Said

September --Tonight I'm starting over -- after these parenthetical months -- for them -- go real slow -- like the first time going out after being locked up for ages ---tonight calm at last -- window open -- a little wind -- gentle -- feeling my bathrobe -- music below -- I just picked up K.'s journal -- always the way to get back to work when it's not happening -- Kafka or Beckett -- to start up again ---nothing is finished -- the problem hasn't been resolved -- but I'm at the end of my rope -- still struggling with it -- because it would be easier to keep going with them than pick up my life where it left off ---these months speak years -- many new things -- to be completely current with present events -living the news as it happens -- with no time lag -- now it's difficult to become nothing but a spectator again ---what counted was the immediate -- objective justification was impossible -- for what I was doing -- theoretical questions useless -- when I make theory for others -- I end up not believing it -- immediate action justified immediately in its entirety -- uncomfortable position but real ---for months no writing -- impossible to reconcile the two ---walk paying attention -- I've lost sensation -- closeness of the outside world around me -- I'm not connecting with things any more -- could be irreparable loss -- trying now to recover sensations -- objects for instance -- the table's smoothness -- its color -- my hand on the paper ---it's raining -- that helps me -- I feel better -- more differentiated from things -- from the outside ---blur already --

October --continuing -- I'm alone in the gallery space -- no options -- walls -- I touch the walls -- I press myself against them -- I'll lean from one to the other -- I stayed in the corner opposite for ten minutes -- now I'm in the middle of the room on a chair -- writing on my lap -- the empty space all around -- spinning ---what to do -- yell -- call out -- for someone to come -- wait -- slow death ---explosion inside my head -- words -- invent words -- fast -- absence -- non-sense of words ---I can't --

December --waiting -- days -- time passes filled with little things -- cling to the slightest incident -- the most expected event -- the most foreseeable with hope for some hidden thing concealed inside the opacity of stillness -- I can't because I know what the end of waiting is -- the possibility of radical change -- definitive -- there are lots of examples of such possibilities but they crumble before any obstacle -- the real presence of people -- of objects -- the world -- the margin between the image of suicide and reality's uncertainty is too great

In a presence already dissolved [excerpts from the Journals of Danielle Collobert, 1960-1961, translated by Norma Cole.] 1960 January "She was sitting by the bridge on the bridge a lot of people were watching the barges unload suddenly the rock she was sitting on started to roll it was a big granite slab block She yelled - everyone turned to look at her - The rock picked up momentum nothing could stop it - the people couldn't understand - Little by little she leaned her upper body forward until she was laid out on the slab -- Simultaneously she felt a great emptiness inside a hole a descent - No one moved from the bridge

captivated by the movement..."

I don't ever want to learn anything again just people I really only get close to them in bed - their nakedness - essential -to understand - grasp by means of gestures - looks - more than with words - already so many men ... February I've been walking for a long time -- it's 9:30 - it's cold I rarely see streets or people at this hour in this neighborhood the houses are mute -people pass quickly - closed walking tightly -- don't know how I got to this neighborhood - slept at J.'s and walked all the way here -- like it follows logically - strange looking at a long and empty day -- nervous -there's that exhibit at the Musee d'art moderne to kill time, not out of love that cold strange room last night - seeing myself again in all the bedrooms - dislocated -- blurred -- bodiless inside those walls -- maybe a little heat remaining -sudden silence -- cold -- and all of a sudden solitude returns -- bad --

watching the kids in the square just now -- retrieving childhood sensations -- earth and water -- fuzzy sensations -- a smell -scattered images -the dining room door ajar and my grandfather in bed -- face to the wall -women sitting around the kitchen table speaking quietly -- and weeping -reds and pinks -the boy in blue -- on a hook hung from the balcony of the house at one corner of the square -- and the Germans all over -- the hook -- the garden -- the entry -- the doorway with masses of red fuschias -- garden masses of apples -one evening in the "house in back" eating pink rat poison and shrieking -terror -flowers -- frost on the window -- feet warming at the stove -- scorched socks -- after school--

the storms and wind in the pines at Compostal -- the fire in the living room hearth -listing images when really the smells are what returns most vividly -roasted coffee -- detergent -- overripe pears in the loft -- smell of wood and wet ground -March Such a strange night -- on the Quai des Fleurs -- I've been living here for a few days -- very nice apartment -- They're sleeping -- the table faces the window where I write -- the Seine -- the lights -- water -- calm came back -like glancing crystal in the water -- rising and falling -- as real as my hand -- my face in the pane -- the Seine's reflections disrupting the lamplight's opacity -- like crossing dream with reality -- and then a car passes -- from light to opacity -- disappearance -tranquility -- very rare peacefulness - after days of emptiness -- empty enough to put off getting up -- because of the emptiness itself -- and after -- completely futile efforts to fill in -why despite appearances I go to such lengths to achieve this feeling emptiness -- of discomfort -- as though every gesture --every movement were bringing me nearer to death -the sensation of emptiness disappeared in that orgasmic moment --

I have possibly never been so far into that solitude as these last months -it still might not be enough -- there is a vague form of stability left here -- of security -- some doubt about what I can stand -more wandering -- add leaving the country -- breaking all bonds -- or whatever -- being broke in a country I don't know -- maybe -probably an illusion -- equating being alone in a room for days -- and going off somewhere -April Departure -- tomorrow -- real escape -- I'm going to Tunisia -- calm --

Tunis 1 here with no break -- already the same life -- I go to cafs -- I make love -- I go to films -- I talk to people -- no distance -- I've already been here since forever -but still it's the East -- the light -- the colors -- the beauty -- at least this: I have new eyes -- senses beginning to function again as though after a long illness -- this morning very early -- in the village -- scarcely daybreak -- through the grillwork on the window -- some noises in the covered streets -- after making love all night -- body heavy and hot -- impression of tiredness -- of well-being -- H. motionless -- head on my belly -- almost cool -- a smell I couldn't place -- almonds and oranges -- old food -- and then suddenly in the silence -- a very long sound -- very low -- the slow modulation of the muezzin -- extraordinary beauty -now here -- in the caf -- seated on matting -- they're playing cards --the patron sitting on a chair by the stove closes his eyes -- head thrown back a little -- he is tall and lean -- looks high as a kite -- they aren't paying any attention to me -- I'm fine here -- it's raining out -- sound of rain on the steps --

Wednesday ran into R.

the building's terrace and the little hut below -- just room for a bed -when I came back at 4 -- air cool -- the whole town below -- early movement in the direction of the station -- to the left -- the quality of the air -especially that -- staying there a long time looking down at the town -September Saturday -- evening -- a caf -- I'm far away -- toward Aubervilliers -- I walked a long time -- spent the last few nights walking -- here the old neighborhoods-- the houses -- hallways staircases -- little courtyards -- what goes on in the daytime -- warehouses -- workshops -- people -- their night deserted -- a few lights farther off -- near the trees -- I'm cold -- bitter taste of cigarettes -- voices -- a woman singing -- an accomplished liar's voice -- slightly hoarse -- sad -- a little raw -go back and sleep -- get loaded -- no -- stay -- stay up -- nurture this --

thing that returned by chance -- the silence inside -November he just left -- when he leaves I never know when I'll see him again -- always chance encounters -- or nearly -- today I asked myself what little errors we've let come between us -- I don't know yet -- I can barely guess -why such tenderness in his gestures -- after -- where there is usually distance -don't be taken in by tenderness -- protect yourself from it -- I'm sucked in too easily -- his presence I already live too much in these days -- not enough resistance now -- or irony -December I am calm -- finally without anxiety -- a certain balance -Y. -- circle around his presence -- no more severing -- or waiting -- calm -a kind of delight -- also -- being with him -- finally this is a story I like -- I feel good -but when I'm like this I don't do anything -- unable to write a word -- I only write in an anxious state (oh sure)* -- or in times like that -- ideas for novels arrive -- the story of the port for example -- stupid -- the novel is basically a pacific creation -- that releases what's essential -- sensation of well-being allows time to stretch out -- necessary to the novel -- whereas the anxiety produces something strong -- complete -- at once -- no going beyond -- (?)* momentary fixity -- in the anxious state --

totally out of it -- what am I doing here -- with these kids -- feels like sweet and well-behaved girls -- never been so isolated in the middle of a group -- almost peculiar -get out of here at the first possible moment -- get away from it -- before the end of resistance -- of rebellion -- before boredom -- exhaustion

1961

February Algeria 2 -- as if this is really the beginning for me -Said September Tonight I'm starting over -- after these parenthetical months -- for them -go real slow -- like the first time going out after being locked up for ages -tonight calm at last -- window open -- a little wind -- gentle -- feeling my bathrobe -- music below -- I just picked up K.'s journal -- always the way to get back to work when it's not happening -- Kafka or Beckett -- to start up again -nothing is finished -- the problem hasn't been resolved -- but I'm at the end of my rope -- still struggling with it -- because it would be easier to keep going with them than pick up my life where it left off -these months speak years -- many new things -- to be completely current with present events -- living the news as it happens -- with no time lag -- now it's difficult to become nothing but a spectator again -what counted was the immediate -- objective justification was impossible -for what I was doing -- theoretical questions useless -- when I make theory for others -- I end up not believing it -- immediate action justified immediately in its entirety -- uncomfortable position but real -for months no writing -- impossible to reconcile the two -walk paying attention -- I've lost sensation -- closeness of the outside world around me -- I'm not connecting with things any more -- could be irreparable loss -- trying now to recover sensations -- objects for instance -- the table's smoothness -- its color -- my hand on the paper -it's raining -- that helps me -- I feel better -- more differentiated from things -- from the outside -blur already -October continuing -- I'm alone in the gallery space -- no options -- walls -- I touch the walls -- I press myself against them -- I'll lean from one to the other -- I stayed in the corner opposite for ten minutes -- now I'm in the middle of the room on a chair -- writing on my lap -- the empty space all around -- spinning -what to do -- yell -- call out -- for someone to come -- wait -- slow death -explosion inside my head -- words -- invent words -- fast -- absence -- non-

sense of words -I can't --

December waiting -- days -- time passes filled with little things -- cling to the slightest incident -- the most expected event -- the most foreseeable with hope for some hidden thing concealed inside the opacity of stillness -- I can't because I know what the end of waiting is -- the possibility of radical change -- definitive -- there are lots of examples of such possibilities but they crumble before any obstacle -- the real presence of people -- of objects -- the world -- the margin between the image of suicide and reality's uncertainty is too great --

story limited in time -- will end on a specific date -- with departure of a train -- wonderful impression of clean -- retreat -- irreparable -- it's there in a presence already dissolved -- almost weightless -- if he knew --