The Unnamable (16 page)

exceptionally
. They shut me up here, now they’re trying to get me out, to shut me up somewhere
else, or to let me go, they are capable of putting me out just to see what I’d do.
Standing with their backs to the door, their arms folded, their legs crossed, they
would observe me. Or all they did was to find me here, on their arrival, or long afterwards.
They are not interested in me, only in the place, they want the place for one of their
own. What can one do but speculate, speculate, until one hits on the happy speculation?
When all goes silent, and comes to an end, it will be because the words have been
said, those it behoved to say, no need to know which, no means of knowing which, they’ll
be there somewhere, in the heap, in the torrent, not necessarily the last, they have
to be ratified by the proper authority, that takes time, he’s far from here, they
bring him the verbatim report of the proceedings, once in a way, he knows the words
that count, it’s he who chose them, in the meantime the voice continues, while the
messenger goes towards the master, and while the master examines the report, and while
the messenger comes back with the verdict, the words continue, the wrong words,
until the order arrives, to stop everything or to continue
everything
, no, superfluous, everything will continue automatically, until the order arrives,
to stop everything. Perhaps they are somewhere there, the words that count, in what
has just been said, the words it behoved to say, they need not be more than a few.
They say they, speaking of them, to make me think it is I who am speaking. Or I say
they, speaking of God knows what, to make me think it is not I who am speaking. Or
rather there is silence, from the moment the messenger departs until he returns with
his orders, namely, Continue. For there are long silences from time to time, truces,
and then I hear them
whispering
, some perhaps whispering, It’s over, this time we’ve hit the mark, and others, We’ll
have to go through it all again, in other words, or in the same words, arranged differently.
Respite then, once in a way, if one can call that respite, when one waits to know
one’s fate, saying, Perhaps it’s not that at all, and saying, Where do these words
come from that pour out of my mouth, and what do they mean, no, saying nothing, for
the words don’t carry any more, if one can call that waiting, when there’s no reason
for it, and one listens, that stet, without reason, as one has always listened, because
one day listening began, because it cannot stop, that’s not a reason, if one can call
that respite. But what’s all this about not being able to die, live, be born, that
must have some bearing, all this about staying where you are, dying, living, being
born, unable to go forward or back, not knowing where you came from, or where you
are, or where you’re going, or that it’s possible to be elsewhere, to be otherwise,
supposing nothing, asking yourself nothing, you can’t, you’re there, you don’t know
who, you don’t know where, the thing stays where it is, nothing changes, within it,
outside it, apparently, apparently. And there is nothing for it but to wait for the
end, nothing but for the end to come, and at the end all will be the same, at the
end at last perhaps all the same as before, as all that livelong time when there was
nothing for it but to get to the end, or fly from it, or wait for it, trembling or
not, resigned or not, the nuisance of doing over, and of being, same thing, for
one who could never do, never be. Ah if only this voice could stop, this meaningless
voice which prevents you from being nothing, just barely prevents you from being nothing
and nowhere, just enough to keep alight this little yellow flame feebly darting from
side to side, panting, as if straining to tear itself from its wick, it should never
have been lit, or it should never have been fed, or it should have been put out, put
out, it should have been let go out. Regretting, that’s what helps you on, that’s
what gets you on towards the end of the world,
regretting
what is, regretting what was, it’s not the same thing, yes, it’s the same, you don’t
know, what’s happening, what’s happened, perhaps it’s the same, the same regrets,
that’s what transports you, towards the end of regretting. But a little animation
now for pity’s sake, it’s now or never, a little spirit, it won’t produce anything,
not a budge, that doesn’t matter, we are not
tradesmen
, and one never knows, does one, no. Perhaps Mahood will emerge from his urn and make
his way towards Montmartre, on his belly, singing, I come, I come, my heart’s delight.
Or Worm, good old Worm, perhaps he won’t be able to bear any more, of not being able,
of not being able to bear any more, it would be a pity to miss that. If I were they
I’d set the rats on him,
water-rats
, sewer-rats, they’re the best, oh not too many, a dozen to a dozen and a half, that
might help him make up his mind, to get going, and what an introduction, to his future
attributes. No, it would be in vain, a rat wouldn’t survive there, not one second.
But let’s have another squint at his eye, that’s the place to look. A little raw perhaps,
the white, with all the pissing, there’s a gleam at last, one hesitates to say of
intelligence. Apart from that the same as ever. A trifle more prominent perhaps, more
paraphimotically globose. It seems to listen. It’s weakening, that’s unavoidable,
glazing, it’s high time to offer it something to bring it clean out of its socket,
in ten years it will be too late. The mistake they make of course is to speak of him
as if he really existed, in a specific place, whereas the whole thing is no more than
a project for the moment. But let them blunder on to the end of their folly, then
they can go into the question
again, taking care not to compromise themselves by the use of terms, if not of notions,
accessible to the understanding. In the same way the case of Mahood has been insufficiently
studied. One may experience the need of such creatures, assuming they are twain, and
even the presentiment of their possible reality, without all these blind and surly
disquisitions. A little more reflection would have shown them that the hour to speak,
far from having struck, might never strike. But they are compelled to speak, it is
forbidden them to stop. Why then not speak of something else, something the existence
of which seems in a certain measure already established, on the subject of which one
may chatter away without blushing purple every thirty or forty thousand words at having
to employ such locutions and which moreover, supreme guarantee, has caused the glibbest
tongues to wag from time immemorial, it would be preferable. It’s the old story, they
want to be entertained, while doing their dirty work, no, not entertained, soothed,
no, that’s not it either, solaced, no, even less, no matter, with the result they
achieve nothing, neither what they want, without knowing exactly what, nor the obscure
infamy to which they are committed, the old story. You wouldn’t think it was the same
gang as a moment ago, or would you? What can you expect, they don’t know who they
are either, nor where they are, nor what they’re doing, nor why everything is going
so badly, so abominably badly, that must be it. So they build up hypotheses that collapse
on top of one another, it’s human, a lobster couldn’t do it. Ah a nice mess we’re
in, the whole pack of us, is it possible we’re all in the same boat, no, we’re in
a nice mess each one in his own peculiar way. I myself have been scandalously bungled,
they must be
beginning
to realise it, I on whom all dangles, better still, about whom, much better, all
turns, dizzily, yes yes, don’t protest, all spins, it’s a head, I’m in a head, what
an illumination, sssst, pissed on out of hand. Ah this blind voice, and these moments
of held breath when all listen wildly, and the voice that begins to fumble again,
without knowing what it’s looking for, and again the tiny silence, and the listening
again, for what, no one
knows, a sign of life perhaps, that must be it, a sign of life
escaping
someone, and bound to be denied if it came, that’s it surely, if only all that could
stop, there’d be peace, no, too good to be believed, the listening would go on, for
the voice to begin again, for a sign of life, for someone to betray himself, or for
something else, anything, what else can there be but signs of life, the fall of a
pin, the stirring of a leaf, or the little cry that frogs give when the scythe slices
them in half, or when they are spiked, in their pools, with a spear, one could multiply
the examples, it would even be an excellent idea, but there it is, one can’t. Perhaps
it would be better to be blind, the blind hear better, full of general knowledge we
are this evening, we have even piano-tuners up our sleeve, they strike A and hear
G, two minutes later, there’s nothing to be seen in any case, this eye is an oversight.
But this isn’t Worm speaking. True, so far, who denies it, it would be premature.
Nor I, for that matter, and Mahood is notoriously aphonic. But the question is not
there, for the moment, no one knows where it is, but it is not there, for the time
being. Ah yes, there’s great fun to be had from an eye, it weeps for the least little
thing, a yes, a no, the yesses make it weep, the noes too, the perhapses particularly,
with the result that the grounds for these staggering pronouncements do not always
receive the attention they deserve. Mahood too, I mean Worm, no, Mahood, Mahood too
is a great weeper, in case it hasn’t been mentioned, his beard is soaking with the
muck, it’s quite ridiculous, especially as it doesn’t relieve him in the slightest,
what could it possibly relieve him of, the poor brute is as cold as a fish, incapable
even of cursing his creator, it’s purely mechanical. But it’s time Mahood was forgotten,
he should never have been mentioned. No doubt. But is it possible to forget him? It
is true one forgets everything. And yet it is greatly to be feared that Mahood will
never let himself be completely resorbed. Worm yes, Worm will vanish utterly, as if
he had never been, which indeed is probably the case, as if one could ever vanish
utterly without having been at some previous stage. That’s soon said. But Mahood too
for that matter. It’s not clear, tut tut, it’s not clear at all. No matter,
Mahood will stay where he was put, stuck up to his skull in his vase, opposite the
shambles, beseeching the passers-by, without a word, or a gesture, or any play of
his features, they don’t play, to perceive him ostensibly, concomitantly with the
day’s dish, or independently, for reasons unknown, perhaps in the hope of being proven
in the swim, that is to say guaranteed to sink, sooner or later, that must be it,
such notions may be
entertained
, without any process of thought. I myself am
exceptionally
given to the tear, I should have preferred this kept dark, in their position I should
have omitted this detail, the truth being I have no vent at my disposal, neither the
aforesaid nor those less noble, how can one enjoy good health under such con ditions,
and what is one to believe, that is not the point, to believe this or that, the point
is to guess right, nothing more, they say, If it’s not white it’s very likely black,
it must be admitted the method lacks subtlety, in view of the intermediate shades
all equally worthy of a chance. The time they waste repeating the same thing, when
they must know pertinently it is not the right one. Recriminations easily rebutted,
if they chose to take the trouble, and had the leisure, to reflect on their inanity.
But how can you think and speak at the same time, how can you think about what you
have said, may say, are saying, and at the same time go on with the last-mentioned,
you think about any old thing, you say any old thing, more or less, more or less,
in a daze of baseless unanswerable self-reproach, that’s why they always repeat the
same thing, the same old litany, the one they know by heart, to try and think of something
different, of how to say something different from the same old thing, always the same
wrong thing said always wrong, they can find nothing, nothing else to say but the
thing that prevents them from finding, they’d do better to think of what they’re saying,
in order at least to vary its
presentation
, that’s what matters, but how can you think and speak at the same time, without a
special gift, your thoughts wander, your words too, far apart, no, that’s an exaggeration,
apart, between them would be the place to be, where you suffer, rejoice, at being
bereft of speech, bereft of thought, and feel
nothing, hear nothing, know nothing, say nothing, are nothing, that would be a blessed
place to be, where you are. It’s a lucky thing they are there, meaning anywhere, to
bear the
responsibility
of this state of affairs, with respect to which if one does not know a great deal
one knows at least this, that one would not care to have it on one’s conscience, to
have it on one’s stomach is enough. Yes, I’m a lucky man to have them, these voluble
shades, I’ll be sorry when they go, for I won’t have them always, not at this rate,
they’ll make me believe I’ve piped up before they’re done with me. The master in any
case, we don’t intend, listen to them hedging, we don’t intend, unless absolutely
driven to it, to make the mistake of inquiring into him, he’d turn out to be a mere
high official, we’d end up by needing God, we have lost all sense of decency admittedly,
but there are still certain depths we prefer not to sink to. Let us keep to the family
circle, it’s more intimate, we all know one another now, no surprises to be feared,
the will has been opened, nothing for anybody. This eye, curious how this eye invites
inspection, demands sympathy, solicits attention, implores assistance, to do what,
it’s not clear, to stop weeping, have a quick look round, goggle an instant and close
forever. It’s it you see and it alone, it’s from it you set out to look for a face,
to it you return having found nothing, nothing worth having, nothing but a kind of
ashen smear, perhaps it’s long grey hair, hanging in a tangle round the mouth, greasy
with ancient tears, or the fringe of a mantle spread like a veil, or fingers opening
and closing to try and shut out the world, or all together, fingers, hair and rags,
mingled inextricably. Suppositions all equally vain, it’s enough to enounce them to
regret having spoken, familiar torment, a different past, it’s often to be wished,
different from yours, when you find out what it was. He is hairless and naked and
his hands, laid flat on his knees once and for all, are in no danger of ever getting
into mischief. And the face? Balls, all balls, I don’t believe in the eye either,
there’s nothing here, nothing to see, nothing to see with, merciful coincidence, when
you think what it would be, a world without spectator, and vice versa,