Something happens, and from the moment it begins to happen,
nothing can ever be the same again.
Something happens. Or else, something does not happen.
A body moves. Or else, it does not move. And if it moves,
something begins to happen. And even if it does not move,
something begins to happen.
It comes from my voice. But that does not mean these words
will ever be what happens. It comes and goes. If I happen to
be speaking at this moment, it is only because I hope to fi nd a
way of going along, of running parallel to everything else that
is going along, and so begin to fi nd a way of fi lling the silence
without breaking it.
I ask whoever is listening to this voice to forget the words it
is speaking. It is important that no one listen too carefully.
I want these words to vanish, so to speak, into the silence they
came from, and for nothing to remain but a memory of their
presence, a token of the fact that they were once here and are
here no longer and that during their brief life they seemed not
so much to be saying any particular thing as to be the thing that
was happening at the same time a certain body was moving
in a certain space, that they moved along with everything else
that moved.
Something begins, and already it is no longer the beginning,
but something else, propelling us into the heart of the thing that
is happening. If we were suddenly to stop and ask ourselves,
“Where are we going?”, or “Where are we now?”, we would
be lost, for at each moment we are no longer where we were,
but have left ourselves behind, irrevocably, in a past that has
no memory, a past endlessly obliterated by a motion that carries
us into the present.
It will not do, then, to ask questions. For this is a landscape of
random impulse, of knowledge for its own sake — which is
to say, a knowledge that exists, that comes into being beyond
any possibility of putting it into words. And if just this once
we were to abandon ourselves to the supreme indifference of
simply being wherever we happen to be, then perhaps we
would not be deluding ourselves into thinking that we, too, had
at last become a part of it all.
To think of motion not merely as a function of the body but
as an extension of the mind. In the same way, to think of
speech not as an extension of the mind but as a function of
the body. Sounds emerge from the voice to enter the air
and surround and bounce off and enter the body that occupies
that air, and though they cannot be seen, these sounds are
no less a gesture than a hand is when outstretched in the air
towards another hand, and in this gesture can be read the
entire alphabet of desire, the body’s need to be taken beyond
itself, even as it dwells in the sphere of its own motion.
On the surface, this motion seems to be random. But such
randomness does not, in itself, preclude a meaning. Or if
meaning is not quite the word for it, then say the drift, or a
consistent sense of what is happening, even as it changes,
moment by moment. To describe it in all its details is probably
not impossible. But so many words would be needed, so
many streams of syllables, sentences, and subordinate clauses,
that the words would always lag behind what was happening,
and long after all motion had stopped and each of its witnesses
had dispersed, the voice describing that motion would still
be speaking, alone, heard by no one, deep into the silence and
darkness of these four walls. And yet something is happening,
and in spite of myself I want to be present inside the space
of this moment, of these moments, and to say something, even
though it will be forgotten, that will form a part of this journey
for the length of the time it endures.
In the realm of the naked eye nothing happens that does not
have its beginning and its end. And yet nowhere can we fi nd
the place or the moment at which we can say, beyond a
shadow of a doubt, that this is where it begins, or this is where
it ends. For some of us, it has begun before the beginning,
and for others of us it will go on happening after the end.
Where to fi nd it? Don’t look. Either it is here or it is not here.
And whoever tries to fi nd refuge in any one place, in any one
moment, will never be where he thinks he is. In other words,
say your good-byes. It is never too late. It is always too late.
To say the simplest thing possible. To go no farther than
whatever it is I happen to fi nd before me. To begin with this
landscape, for example. Or even to note the things that are
most near, as if in the tiny world before my eyes I might fi nd
an image of the life that exists beyond me, as if in a way
I do not fully understand each thing in my life were connected
to every other thing, which in turn connected me to the world
at large, the endless world that looms up in the mind, as
lethal and unknowable as desire itself.
To put it another way. It is sometimes necessary not to
name the thing we are talking about. The invisible God of the
Hebrews, for example, had an unpronounceable name, and
each of the ninety-nine names tradition ascribes to this God
was in fact nothing more than a way of acknowledging thatwhich-
cannot-be-spoken, that-which-cannot-be-seen, and
that-which-cannot-be-understood. But even on a less exalted
plane, in the realm of the visible itself, we often hold back from
divulging the thing we are talking about. Consider the word
“it.” “It” is raining, we say, or how is “it” going? We feel we
know what we are saying, and what we mean to say is that
it, the word “it,” stands for something that need not be said,
or something that cannot be said. But if the thing we say is
something that eludes us, something we do not understand,
how can we persist in saying that we understand what we are
saying? And yet it goes without saying that we do.
The “it,” for example, in the preceding sentence, “it goes
without saying,” is in fact nothing less than whatever it is that
propels us into the act of speech itself. And if it, the word “it,”
is what continually recurs in any effort to defi ne it, then it must
be accepted as the given, the precondition of the saying of it.
It has been said, for example, that words falsify the thing they
attempt to say, but even to say “they falsify” is to admit
that “they falsify” is true, thus betraying an implicit faith in the
power of words to say what they mean to say. And yet, when
we speak, we often do not mean to say anything, as in the
present case, in which I fi nd these words falling from my mouth
and vanishing into the silence they came from. In other words,
it says itself, and our mouths are merely the instruments of
the saying of it. How does it happen? But never do we ask what
“it” happens to be. We know, even if we cannot put it into
words. And the feeling that remains within us, the discretion
of a knowledge so fully in tune with the world, has no need of
whatever it is that might fall from our mouths. Our hearts
know what is in them, even if our mouths remain silent. And
the world will know what it is, even when nothing remains
in our hearts.
A man sets out on a journey to a place he has never been
before. Another man comes back. A man comes to a place that
has no name, that has no landmarks to tell him where he is.
Another man decides to come back. A man writes letters from
nowhere, from the white space that has opened up in his
mind. The letters are never received. The letters are never sent.
Another man sets out on a journey in search of the fi rst man.
This second man becomes more and more like the fi rst man,
until he, too, is swallowed up by the whiteness. A third man
sets out on a journey with no hope of ever getting anywhere.
He wanders. He continues to wander. For as long as he remains
in the realm of the naked eye, he continues to wander.
Paul Auster, White spaces
19.9.14
11.9.14
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