The Unnamable (14 page)

bigger ones for the arms, they can make one bigger still for the transit of Worm,
from darkness to light. But what is the good of talking about what they will do as
soon as Worm sets himself in motion, so as to gather him without fail into their midst,
since he cannot set himself in motion, though he often desires to, if when speaking
of him one may speak of desire, and one may not, one should not, but there it is,
that is the way to speak of him, that is the way to speak to him, as if he were alive,
as if he could understand, as if he could desire, even if it serves no purpose, and
it serves none. And it is a blessing for him he cannot stir, even though he suffers
because of it, for it would be to sign his life-warrant, to stir from where he is,
in search of a little calm and something of the silence of old. But perhaps one day
he will stir, the day when the little effort of the early stages, infinitely weak,
will have become, by dint of repetition, a great effort, strong enough to tear him
from where he lies. Or perhaps one day they will leave him in peace, letting go their
hands, filling up the holes and departing, towards more profitable occupations, in
Indian file. For a decision must be reached, the scales must tilt, to one side or
the other. No, one can spend one’s life thus, unable to live, unable to bring to life,
and die in vain, having done nothing, been nothing. It is strange they do not go and
fetch him in his den, since they seem to have access to it. They dare not, the air
in the midst of which he lies is not for them, and yet they want him to breathe theirs.
They could set a dog on him perhaps, with instructions to drag him out. But no dog
would survive there either, not for one second. With a long pole perhaps, with a hook
at the end. But the place where he lies is vast, that’s interesting, he is far, too
far for them to reach him even with the longest pole. That tiny blur, in the depths
of the pit, is he. There he is now in a pit, no avenue will have been left unexplored.
They say they see him, the blur is what they see, they say the blur is he, perhaps
it is. They say he hears them, they don’t know, perhaps he does, yes, he hears, nothing
else is certain. Worm hears, though hear is not the word, but it will do, it will
have to do. They look down upon him
then, according to the latest news, he’ll have to climb to reach them. Bah, the latest
news, the latest news is not the last. The slopes are gentle that meet where he lies,
they flatten out under him, it is not a meeting, it is not a pit, that didn’t take
long, soon we’ll have him perched on an eminence. They don’t know what to say, to
be able to believe in him, what to invent, to be
reassured
, they see nothing, they see grey, like still smoke,
unbroken
, where he might be, if he must be somewhere, where they have decreed he is, into
which they launch their voices, one after another, in the hope of dislodging him,
hearing him stir, seeing him loom within reach of their gaffs, hooks, barbs,
grapnels
, saved at last, home at last. And now that’s enough about them, their usefulness
is over, no, not yet, let them stay, they may still serve, stay where they are, turning
in a ring, launching their voices, through the hole, there must be a hole for the
voices too. But is it them he hears? Are they really necessary that he may hear, they
and kindred puppets? Enough concessions, to the spirit of geometry. He hears, that’s
all about it, he who is alone, and mute, lost in the smoke, it is not real smoke,
there is no fire, no matter, strange hell that has no heating, no denizens, perhaps
it’s paradise, perhaps it’s the light of paradise, and the solitude, and this voice
the voice of the blest interceding
invisible
, for the living, for the dead, all is possible. It isn’t the earth, that’s all that
counts, it can’t be the earth, it can’t be a hole in the earth, inhabited by Worm
alone, or by others if you like, huddled in a heap like him, mute, immovable, and
this voice the voice of those who mourn them, envy them, call on them and forget them,
that would account for its incoherence, all is
possible
. Yes, so much the worse, he knows it is a voice, how is not known, nothing is known,
he understands nothing it says, just a little, almost nothing, it’s inexplicable,
but it’s necessary, it’s preferable, that he should understand just a little, almost
nothing, like a dog that always gets the same filth flung to it, the same orders,
the same threats, the same cajoleries. That settles that, the end is in sight. But
the eye, let’s leave him his eye too, it’s to see with, this great wild black and
white eye, moist, it’s to
weep with, it’s to practise with, before he goes to Killarney. What does he do with
it, he does nothing with it, the eye stays open, it’s an eye without lids, no need
for lids here, where nothing happens, or so little, if he could blink he might miss
the odd sight, if he could close it, the kind he is, he’d never open it again. Tears
gush from it practically without ceasing, why is not known, nothing is known, whether
it’s with rage, or whether it’s with grief, the fact is there, perhaps it’s the voice
that makes it weep, with rage, or some other passion, or at having to see, from time
to time, some sight or other, perhaps that’s it, perhaps he weeps in order not to
see, though it seems difficult to credit him with an initiative of this complexity.
The rascal, he’s getting humanised, he’s going to lose if he doesn’t watch out, if
he doesn’t take care, and with what could he take care, with what could he form the
faintest conception of the condition they are decoying him into, with their ears,
their eyes, their tears and a brainpan where anything may happen. That’s his strength,
his only strength, that he understands nothing, can’t take thought, doesn’t know what
they want, doesn’t know they are there, feels nothing, ah but just a moment, he feels,
he suffers, the noise makes him suffer, and he knows, he knows it’s a voice, and he
understands, a few expressions here and there, a few
intonations
, ah it looks bad, bad, no, perhaps not, for it’s they describe him thus, without
knowing, thus because they need him thus, perhaps he hears nothing, suffers nothing,
and this eye, more mere imagination. He hears, true, though it’s they again who say
it, but this can’t be denied, this is better not denied. Worm hears, that’s all can
be said for certain, whereas there was a time he didn’t, the same Worm, according
to them, he has therefore changed, that’s grave, gravid, who knows to what lengths
he may be carried, no, he can be relied on. The eye too, of course, is there to put
him to flight, make him take fright, badly enough to break his bonds, they call that
bonds, they want to deliver him, ah mother of God, the things one has to listen to,
perhaps it’s tears of mirth. Well, no matter, let’s drive on now to the end of the
joke, we must be nearly there, and see what they have to
offer him, in the way of bugaboos. Who, we? Don’t all speak at once, there’s no sense
in that either. All will come right, later on in the evening, everyone gone and silence
restored. In the
meantime
no sense in bickering about pronouns and other parts of blather. The subject doesn’t
matter, there is none. Worm being in the singular, as it turned out, they are in the
plural, to avoid confusion, confusion is better avoided, pending the great confounding.
Perhaps there is only one of them, one would do the trick just as well, but he might
get mixed up with his victim, that would be abominable, downright masturbation. We’re
getting on. Nothing much then in the way of sights for sore eyes. But who can be sure
who has not been there, has not lived there, they call that living, for them the spark
is present, ready to burst into flame, all it needs is preaching on, to become a living
torch, screams included. Then they may go silent, without having to fear an embarrassing
silence, when steps are heard on graves as the saying is, genuine hell. Decidedly
this eye is hard of hearing. Noises travel, traverse walls, but may the same be said
of appearances? By no means, generally speaking. But the present case is rather special.
But what appearances, it is always well to try and find out what one is talking about,
even at the risk of being deceived. This grey to begin with, meant to be depressing
no doubt. And yet there is yellow in it, pink too apparently, it’s a nice grey, of
the kind recommended as going with everything, urinous and warm. In it the eye can
see,
otherwise
why the eye, but dimly, that’s right, no superfluous
particulars
, later to be controverted. A man would wonder where his kingdom ended, his eye strive
to penetrate the gloom, and he crave for a stick, an arm, fingers apt to grasp and
then release, at the right moment, a stone, stones, or for the power to utter a cry
and wait, counting the seconds, for it to come back to him, and suffer, certainly,
at having neither voice nor other missile, nor limbs submissive to him, bending and
unbending at the word of command, and perhaps even regret being a man, under such
conditions, that is to say a head abandoned to its ancient solitary resources. But
Worm suffers only from the noise which
prevents him from being what he was before, admire the nuance. If it’s the same Worm,
and they have set their hearts on it. And if it is not it makes no difference, he
suffers as he has always suffered, from this noise that prevents nothing, that must
be feasible. In any case this grey can hardly be said to add to his misery, brightness
would be better suited for that purpose, since he cannot close his eye. He cannot
avert it either, nor lower it, nor lift it up, it remains trained on the same tiny
field, a stranger forever to the boons and blessings of accommodation. But perhaps
one day brightness will come, little by little, or rapidly, or in a sudden flood,
and then it is hard to see how Worm could stay, and it is also hard to see how he
could go. But impossible situations cannot be prolonged, unduly, the fact is well
known, either they disperse, or else they turn out to be possible after all, it’s
only to be expected, not to mention other possibilities. Let there then be light,
it will not necessarily be disastrous. Or let there be none, we’ll manage without
it. But these lights, in the plural, which rear aloft, swell, sweep down and go out
hissing, reminding one of the naja, perhaps the moment has come to throw them into
the balance and have done with this tedious equipoise, at last. No, the moment has
not yet come, to do that. Ha. None of your hoping here, that would spoil everything.
Let others hope for him, outside, in the cool, in the light, if they have a wish to,
or if they are obliged to, or if they are paid to, yes, they must be paid to hope,
they hope nothing, they hope things will continue as they are, it’s a soft job, their
thoughts wander as they call on Jude, it’s praying they are, praying for Worm, praying
to Worm, to have pity, pity on them, pity on Worm, they call that pity, merciful God,
the things one has to put up with, fortunately it all means nothing to him. Currish
obscurity, to thy kennel, hell-hound! Grey. What else? Calm, calm, there must be something
else, to go with this grey, which goes with everything. There must be something of
everything here, as in every world, a little of everything. Mighty little, it seems.
Beside the point in any case. What balls is going on before this impotent crystalline,
that’s all that needs to be
imagined. A face, how encouraging that would be, if it could be a face, every now
and then, always the same, methodically varying its expressions, doggedly demonstrating
all a true face can do, without ever ceasing to be recognisable as such, passing from
unmixed joy to the sullen fixity of marble, via the most characteristic shades of
disenchantment, how pleasant that would be. Worth ten of Saint Anthony’s pig’s arse.
Passing by at the right distance, the right level, say once a month, that’s not exorbitant,
full face and profile, like criminals. It might even pause, open its mouth, raise
its eyebrows, bless its soul, stutter, mutter, howl, groan and finally shut up, the
chaps clenched to cracking point, or fallen, to let the dribble out. That would be
nice. A presence at last. A visitor, faithful, with his visiting-day, his visiting-hour,
never staying too long, it would be wearisome, or too little, it would not be enough,
but just the necessary time for hope to be born, grow, languish and die, say five
minutes. And even should the notion of time dawn on his darkness, at this punctual
image of the countenance everlasting, who could blame him? Involving very naturally
that of space, they have taken to going hand in hand, in certain quarters, it’s safer.
And the game would be won, lost and won, he’d be somehow suddenly among us, among
the rendezvous, and people saying, Look at old Worm, waiting for his sweetheart, and
the flowers, look at the flowers, you’d think he was asleep, you know old Worm, waiting
for his love, and the daisies, look at the daisies, you’d think he was dead. That
would be worth seeing. Fortunately it’s all a dream. For here there is no face, nor
anything
resembling
one, nothing to reflect the joy of living and succedanea, nothing for it but to try
something else. Some simple thing, a box, a piece of wood, to come to rest before
him for an instant, once a year, once every two years, a ball, revolving one knows
not how about one knows not what, about him, every two years, every three years, frequency
unimportant in the early stages, without stopping, it needn’t stop, that would be
better than nothing, he’d hear it approaching, hear it receding, it would be an event,
he might learn to count, the minutes, the hours, to
fret, be brave, have patience, lose patience, turn his head, roll his eye, a big stone,
and faithful, that would be better than nothing, pending the hearts of flesh. And
even should his start off, his heart that is, on its waltz, in his ear, tralatralay
pom pom, again, tralatralay pom pom, re mi re do bang bang, who could