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1

The essential nature of another, namely me,
filled me and I could see what was lacking within:
a new modulation, trajectories devoid of sound or colour,
an imaginary series of almost enlightening concepts.
The true value of this spectacle was
that nothing was happening.

 

2

We got together.
We read texts, texts in the pure state,
we could not grasp their meaning, origin nor purpose.
We were swept away, worn away
until effaced before these extraordinary nonexistent texts.
Each was alone and at home,
assuring the permanent absence of this conversation.

 

3

I took part in an effort
to smash all that was coherent within me
before withdrawing from this tumult,
in other words before glimpsing the effort itself.
The fleeting idea of being unable to return prevented
the effort from even being conceived,
and, being inconceivable, nothing remained of this revolt.

 

4

“Enough of this lucidity, of this dead
weight, don’t say anything, enough.”
He didn’t reply.
I continued:
“Why invite me to seek myself?
What is already here appears guilty
and disturbing enough.”

He didn’t reply.

 

5

You who have not experienced this atrocious
mutilation of what isn’t, of the sourceless energy,
as I am not you, you are unaware of my suffering,
of this self cutting through a thick transparency
towards the true hermetic anguish—inaccessible, almost a fantasy.

 

André Dalmas
from Ballasts, Pierre Seghers, 1948