Translated from the original French by Catherine Wieder He who ventures has no name. Language is his sole realm. It took place along the banks of the River Meuse, a few steps away from the wasteweir with its ceaseless uproar, or else among the heights, close to a silent lake, surrounded by pine-trees, set very high in the cool. It mixes its waters.
Landscapes superimpose themselves.
Some sudden well fantasizes its surge, a bark bursts, the transparent torrent wraps with ice one's ankles among the stepping stones. He deciphers himself as a blurred purl in which the clearness of the voice comes to startle him. At some hours, so he remembers, light seemed a little brighter. Hence the lukewarmth of the bell which, at dusk strikes its skew beam of sun. His memory flows out in specks of dust.