The Book of Flights
Page 14
Hogan was far away, just now; he was sitting on his heels, in the weed-covered plain among the ruins, like a dog at the feet of his master; the heat and the light were harsh, unrelieved even by a breath of wind. Where was all this happening? What was he going to do? The clouds move lazily in the sky, the stunted trees need water. Are there enough words for each of us? There is great joy, joy in the notes that soar and swoop, in the soft hissing, in the sharp trills. There is great fear, too, the voluble fear that furnishes silence. The earth is far away, as though viewed through the wrong end of a telescope. Is one on this side or the other side of the mirror? The birds cry out, the horses cry out, the fish cry out, even the bugs cry out when the blood drains away, even the mouthless weeds. Everything is cold, everything is inhabited.
When the sun had reached about a quarter past four that afternoon, the little boy stopped playing. He got up without looking at Hogan and went away, walking barefoot through the grass. Then Hogan went away, too. He walked along a sort of causeway paved with worn flags, that crossed a canal. He saw a lot of people moving around with cameras, notebooks and sunglasses. And he had to make a great effort to remember even part of what he had understood.
The squatting posture:
in front of fire, in front of water
for urination, defecation, childbirth.
Uneasy repose
balance.
Posture favouring total concentration of the
being only the feet touch the ground
(being upright involves dispersion)
Posture for take-off
posture of vigilance
(being seated involves unconstraint)
Heedful peoples live in a squatting posture.
The compact shape of the man squatting in the
dust is repugnant to the civilized man.
CHILD SQUATTING IN FRONT OF THE WORLD
MAN SQUATTING AS HE EATS
WOMAN SQUATTING AS SHE WASHES IN THE RIVER
‘THOSE WHO FOLLOW ignorance enter into the darkness of the blind, but those who seek only knowledge enter into an even greater darkness.’
Īša Upaniṣad
THE QUESTION NOW is: one or several?
This is the big question, the only question one can hope to answer some day, with one’s life, with one’s life crammed full with words. I had been too busy fleeing to realize that. I just didn’t see it. I didn’t even suspect that such a question could exist. The only questions I used to ask myself were unimportant, irrelevant ones, like: Is there a God? What happens after death? And then: does the world have a purpose? Can one live without a moral code?
They were bad questions because it was obvious that I couldn’t answer them.
They were questions, tremors of language, imperfections, the exposition of anassuaged desires in terms of the desirable. I was incapable of answering them because, like the others, I lacked the real means to do so. Language had blinded me with its daily mendacity. It had accustomed me to think in explicit terms, based upon linguistic justifications. What was there to say? There was the fact to be recorded, as usual, that thought was powerless to convince genuinely, to impose its laws on the universe. But that didn’t matter. I wanted to know; I never imagined that one could escape from the narrow valley, look elsewhere, breathe elsewhere. But I know now that the true question is: the one or the several?
Yet at the same moment that the question assails me, overwhelms me, I know that I shall not answer it. That I shall have no vocabulary for it, since language is the one, whereas it is a matter of conceiving the several. I shall have no words for that. I shall have nothing but a few gestures, at a pinch, to light a fresh cigarette with my right hand, to squeeze the trigger of the camera that kills, or else to take a sheet of white paper and draw on it thousands of black dots:
I shall have millions of gestures, from the beginning of my life right up to the end, and perhaps even beyond, and these millions of gestures will be my reply.
I shall have thousands of handwritings, cursive, script, slanting, back-handed, Tamil, Arabic, cuneiform. I shall have Mayan hieroglyphs, Chinese ideograms of A.D. 1000, Phoenician, Etruscan, Hebrew characters. I shall have Kuna pictographs, Maori tattoos, the notches in Magdalenian pebbles. Graffiti on the walls of London urinals. Tibetan mantras, the yellow daubs on the faces of peyoteros, display posters, Hongkong’s illuminated signs, the incisions in Karaja dolls, the Guarayos’ maze pictures.
I shall have highway codes, and the flashing signs at the side of expressways repeating their message, maintain speed! maintain speed! The signs of the Zodiac, runes, quipus, mosaics, tapestries, kites, knuckle-bones, all the tau crosses, all the chalera wheels, all the Totó flowers, all the rainbows and solar almanacs that have served as a path for peoples in exodus. So many individuals have set out! So many feet have trod the ground, so many bodies have been consigned to the earth or burned on pyres. There have been so many sorrows, crimes, brutalities, here, and there! The fields have been devastated, fields so vast that no one has ever seen their far boundaries. The ships have voyaged over the seas, and there are so many seas!
I shall also have those millions of bodies to help me reply. Those millions of ways of life, those millions of skins: Negro, Kabyle, Kirghiz, Sudanese, Indian, American Indian, half-breed, white, albino! Those millions of ages, give or take a few seconds, those millions of races, civilizations, tribes. To help me reply, I shall have the history of time, not history itself but the stories and adventures that have spanned time, that have inscribed themselves on the trunks of trees and the walls of caves.
I shall have the life of the peasant Aurelius, who tilled his field in Latium during the time of Claudius Niger. That of James Retherford, who shod horses at Canterbury in 1604. That of the settler Lipczick, whose wagon rolled across the plains of Wyoming in 1861. I shall have the life of Khabarov who has at last reached the banks of the river Love. The life of Cuauhtetzin, as he marches along in the sun, in the dust, surrounded by his band of slaves loaded down with cocoa, in the year One of Acatl.
I shall also have the life of a certain François Le Clézio, who, with his wife and daughter, has embarked for Mauritius, and I shall have written down on sheets of green paper:
Log of a voyage from Bordeaux to Mauritius
aboard the brig Le Courrier des Indes
Departed the 27 floreal Year 7
Arrived the 17 fructidor Year 7
this 29 floreal
The weather being foggy, our hearts were heavy, our position being 44°26” & 8°12”
This 30
At 7 in the morning we saw 2 ships, whereat we went about.
at 44°33” & 8°27”.
This 1st Prairial Year 7
At 3 in the afternoon we sighted 2 ships sailing on opposite tacks to each other, whereat we went about. at 44°53” & 9°18” longitude.
This 3 Pal 7th
At 8 in the morning, sighted a brig, whereat we made ready for battle, but soon thereafter it made off at 44°10” & 11°17”.
This 6
At 2 in the morning, descried a sail on its course.
At 1/2 past 4 sighted 3 frigates which gave chase to us & in spite of all our efforts, they were 5 hrs & 1/2 a league distant from us: which obliged us to stave in our water-casks which were on the bridge. At 7, seeing that they were gaining on us, we jettisoned 4 iron cannons and 6 wooden cannons with their mountings, and other objects, & in spite of all these precautions, we could draw away only a little. At 1/4 past 8, one of the frigates fired at us with a bow chaser. We made a new manoeuvre which gave us no more advantage then before. The nearest ship came within cannon range and fired upon us; a few balls fell right behind us; finally there was no course open to us but to strike our colours & to our great satisfaction we saw that the ships were French; they were the Franchise, the Concorde & the Médée, out of Rochefort the 27fral, under the command of Cpn. Landolphe. We followed them at 41°39” & 19°42” longitude.
This 15 Pal Year 7
&
nbsp; At 7 in the evening, 3 flying fish leaped on board & one of them flapped with some force into my face at 27°11” & 30°9”.
This 17
At 6 in the morning, no sooner sighted a schooner sailing on the starboard tack than we gave chase. At 11 in the morning, having overtaken it, we fired a cannon-shot at it, & it at once struck its colours, and launched its dinghy & the Cpn climbed on board our ship. He chanced to be American, out of Cadiz whence he was transporting to Charlestown 35 passengers, among whom 6 Capuchin friars. The captain willingly yielded water to us, whereupon we parted our ways at 21°48” & 30°23”.
This 26
At 10 in the morning, the sea almost calm, as a mist lifted, descried a convoy which lay N.E. of us, at 2 leagues distance; at once went about, and shipped six sweeps to escape from a frigate and a brig which were giving chase to us. At noon we lost sight of them in a squall, but soon thereafter in calm weather though much rain at intervals, we saw them again still giving chase. At noon we became aware that they were losing the wind & that we were about to receive a squall from the N. W. We at once set our sails to receive it & we kept pulling together in good spirits.
At 1/2 past 3 the weather cleared & after 5 hours of arduous & general labour in the heat & under very abundant rains, at last hauled in our oars & saw the frigate that had abandoned the chase returning to rejoin the convoy. We counted 23 sails: it was an English convoy out of the East Indies & headed for Portsmouth.
5°48” & 24°21”
This 26 Messidor
Saw an albatross, a bird four times greater than a turkey & having a wing span of between eight and fifteen feet: we hooked one of 10 feet: its plumage is very akin to that of the Swan.
29°42” & 19°52”
22 to 23 Thermidor
During the afternoon, fresh south-westerly winds blowing true. The sea running high.
At 10 in the evening reefed the topsails; the sea running very high indeed, the Ship scudded before the wind under the mizzen and the fore-topsail, it proceeded at 10, 11 & even 12 knots with the strength of the winds & the currents. Much thunder, we shipped several heavy seas.
At one o’clock after midnight, shipped the heaviest sea hitherto, we were awash from end to end; the rudder failed to respond for about one minute; at that moment we thought ourselves irretrievably lost, the Ship being more and more down by the head; but happily its buoyancy revived our spirits; at this time the sea inundated our cabins, several objects were swept off the bridge by the sea which also deprived us of our last pig the loss of which we regretted for several days thereafter. The remainder of our hens were drowned, but we contrived a fricassee two days later. This terrible rush of water took place abeam of the Needles, at 36°3” & 24°14”
28
The winds almost calm, weather misty, sea rather rough, occasional storms, at 34°14” & 30°35”.
10 to 15
Fair weather, fair sea, fresh breezes at 21°55” & 58°14”
16 fructidor Year 7
We have sighted the land of Mauritius, but because of the night we lay off to the sea.
I shall have the life of Rudy Sanchez, sitting in the bar that is made out of plastics, drinking beer and listening to strident music. I shall have the life of Lena Borg, of Laurent Dufour, of J. L. Quirichini, of Simone Chenu, of Troubetskoy, of M. & Mme Bongiovanni, of Thanat Gojasevi. Or else I shall have the life of Hoang Trung Thong and of Nguyen Ngoc writing poems to win the war. And sometimes I shall have the life of a certain Yarmayan, and I shall live in an odd kind of world of dazzling light, in towns full of steel and crystal, one day, in the year 10223½.
All of that, then, will be my answer, although I shall never be able to learn it myself. And this answer will be of no importance because it will never be addressed to anyone but myself alone, like a secret letter.
There is no need to know this answer. All the other questions demanded an immediate answer. No matter what, provided it was given with words, in some language using words. They pounced, they were eager, indiscreet. They lacked patience.
Whereas my question is gentle; it demands nothing, almost nothing. It is not demanding. It is there, peacefully, hurting me, hollowing its tunnel in my body. I appease it with gestures and with time, with things that are either tremendous or insignificant. I fill it with reality. It is my worm, devouring my food as fast as I absorb it.
My question is delighted that I am in flight. It longs for still more movement, still more insecurity. The more I stay in motion, the stronger it becomes. Each time I am struck by a blow I feel it stirring in my depths, shivering with pleasure. Pain, enjoyment, desire, hatred, everything suits its purpose, which is to push me farther back, and so erase from my mind a little more than what I had learned. It is due to my question that I RETREAT all the time.
Always whittling away at the universe until nothing remains but an incomprehensible pulp.
Is there a thought process?
Is there an idea which remains true from one end of the world to the other, an idea which remains true for more than a second?
Is there a thought which is not attached to the object, like slimy seaweed to the rock, a thought which is not carried away immediately in the sudden drop, down the drain which sucks things in noisily?
Or alternatively, and worse still, is it not all a lie, an utterly absurd, crazy lie, since thought’s intention is not to disguise the real but to be one with it, to represent it, invent it?
Is there a thought which is not like a hair, a thought so great and so beautiful that in returning to the earth after a thousand centuries one would recognize it immediately? Is there a thought which my daughter could understand? Is there even a thought which I could capture on the wing, one day, after having abandoned it?
That is why I am going away. That is the reason why one day I am here, another day somewhere else. If I am off in all directions it is so as to escape from the evil spell which would like to turn me into a pillar of salt. Words are on the lookout. Behind the covers of books, on the façades of houses, in the mouths of women and children, they are after me. They are waiting for the instant of inattention, the weak moment when my glance wavers from their face: then they would pounce. Their tiny harpoons are ready. To them, I am a whale whose flanks are heavy with fat. Their solid cords want to coil themselves round my arms and legs, their spider’s webs want to weave themselves over my head, smothering me under a mask of dust. They want to dress me. They want to draw down over my face the woollen hood that is already provided with imaginary nose, eyes and mouth. They want to give me the name, the mellifluous word of powerful syllables, that will cover me entirely. They want to call me simply Man, Young Man, Young Man H. All of them. And it is true that, in the depths of my being, room has already been set aside for these syllables, there is already the pain of the tattoo being pricked in.
What do they want to call me? They want to call me THE ONE.
At one fell swoop they will drive me into the solid universe with its square walls, its white ceiling from which the light bulb hangs, its beautiful windows, universe without hope,’ where everything makes sense. There will be no more fear, no more misery. No more movement. There will be nothing but stability, the extraordinary, abominable stability of falsehood.
If I say yes, what joy will radiate, what pride will shine in the eyes of the rest of mankind. They are gathered around me, great stone colossi with cruel eyes, and they are singing in chorus
He has said yes, he has said yes, yes, yes
He has said yes, he has said yes, yes, yes
YOUNG MAN HOGAN went out at five. He walked through the town, along an avenue that sloped gently downward. This was another huge town, set in a bay ringed by mountains, undulating across a series of hills. From high up, one could occasionally glimpse the town through the blocks of tall buildings, a sort of grey puddle made of roofs and walls. But once inside the town, one could no longer see anything at all. One walked down the sloping avenue that was lined on both sides by the
frontages of low-built houses, shop windows, garages and gas stations. Cars bumped over the roadway’s pitted surface, some going up, others coming down. Dilapidated old buses, full to overflowing, rattled along explosively, horns blasting.
Young walked along in the heavy air that reeked of exhaust fumes. He was making for the poor quarters, unhurriedly, paying little attention to the street scene around him. Hundreds of other people were walking along, too, skinny little men wearing thong sandals on their bare feet, fat women, children, dogs sniffing at bits of muck. At one moment he went into a dimly-lit shop to buy cigarettes. He was handed a yellowish pack bearing a design that represented the head of a smiling woman, with a ricefield in the background, and the words:
NEW PARADISE
or something like that. When he opened the pack he saw that they were American-style filter tips. They tasted rather peculiar, like burnt grass. Young went on down the boulevard, smoking.
The sun was invisible, hidden behind a grey haze. Heat rose from the ground, came out of the walls, a moist engine heat that penetrated people’s clothes and glued their hair flat.
The boulevard descended like that for about a mile. Then it reached a bridge, and after crossing a miserable stream like a smear of spittle that trickled underneath, it led to an intersection from which a number of avenues radiated. Straight ahead lay the slum district, which could be entered only by narrow, dark streets burrowing their way between the blocks of houses. Young Man Hogan plunged into the warren. Walking along the alley, he felt a strange feeling of coolness come over him. It was not a soothing feeling, more like a sort of feverish shiver running down his spine, giving him gooseflesh.