Going further forward would thus become moving further towards what lies behind as well as orienting oneself further into the future. A polybiographical memory rather than an autobiographical one. 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.
Mingled with his object. The undeterminate gesture, without any apparent motive, of writing immediately links itself to motifs coming straight from childhood but dealt with as an anonymous or blurred matter. It's a way of blowing on photographs. One should imagine him like those dead shells where several shellfish come to dwell in turn. He steps back and remembers.