Where would I go, if I could go, who would I be, if I could be, whatwould I say, if I had a voice, who says this, saying it's me? Answersimply, someone answer simply. It's the same old stranger as ever, forwhom alone accusative I exist, in the pit of my inexistence, of his, ofours, there's a simple answer. It's not with thinking he'll find me,but what is he to do, living and bewildered, yes, living, say what hemay. Forget me, know me not, yes, that would be the wisest, none betterable than he. Why this sudden affability after such desertion, it's easyto understand, that's what he says, but he doesn't understand. I'm notin his head, nowhere in his old body, and yet I'm there, for him I'mthere, with him, hence all the confusion. That should have been enoughfor him, to have found me absent, but it's not, he wants me there, witha form and a world, like him, in spite of him, me who am everything,like him who is nothing. And when he feels me void of existence it's ofhis he would have me void, and vice versa, mad, mad, he's mad. The truthis he's looking for me to kill me, to have me dead like him, dead likethe living. He knows all that, but it's no help his knowing it, I don'tknow it, I know nothing. He protests he doesn't reason and does nothingbut reason, crooked, as if that could improve matters. He thinks wordsfail him, he thinks because words fail him he's on his way to myspeechlessness, to being speechless with my speechlessness, he wouldlike it to be my fault that words fail him, of course words fail him. Hetells his story every five minutes, saying it is not his, there'scleverness for you. He would like it to be my fault that he has nostory, of course he has no story, that's no reason for trying to foistone on me. That's how he reasons, wide of the mark, but wide of whatmark, answer us that. He has me say things saying it's not me, there'sprofundity for you, he has me who say nothing say it's not me. All thatis truly crass. If at least he would dignify me with the third person,like his other figments, not he, he'll be satisfied with nothing lessthan me, for his me. When he had me, when he was me, he couldn't get ridof me quick enough, I didn't exist, he couldn't have that, that was nokind of life, of course I didn't exist, any more than he did, of courseit was no kind of life, now he has it, his kind of life, let him loseit, if he wants to be in peace, with a bit of luck. His life, what amine, what a life, he can't have that, you can't fool him, ergo it's nothis, it's not him, what a thought, treat him like that, like a vulgarMolloy, a common Malone, those mere mortals, happy mortals, have aheart, land him in that shit, who never stirred, who is none but me, allthings considered, and what things, and how considered, he had only tokeep out of it. That's how he speaks, this evening, how he has me speak,how he speaks to himself, how I speak, there is only me, this evening,here, on earth, and a voice that makes no sound because it goes towardsnone, and a head strewn with arms laid down and corpses fighting fresh,and a body, I nearly forgot. This evening, I say this evening, perhapsit's morning. And all these things, what things, all aboutme, I won't deny them any more, there's no sensein that any more. If it's nature perhaps it's trees and birds, they gotogether, water and air, so that all may go on, I don t need to know thedetails, perhaps I'm sitting under a palm. Or it's a room, withfurniture, all that's required to make life comfortable, dark, becauseof the wall outside the window. What am I doing, talking, having myfigments talk, it can only be me. Spells of silence too, when I listen,and hear the local sounds, the world sounds, see what an effort I make,to be reasonable. There's my life, why not, it is one, if you like, ifyou must, I don't say no, this evening. There has to be one, it seems,once there is speech, no need of a story, a story is not compulsory,just a life, that's the mistake I made, one of the mistakes, to havewanted a story for myself, whereas life alone is enough. I'm makingprogress, it was time, I'll learn to keep my foul mouth shut before I'mdone, if nothing foreseen crops up. But he who somehow comes and goes,unaided from place to place, even though nothing happens to him, true,what of him? I stay here, sitting, if I'm sitting, often I feel sitting,sometimes standing, it's one or the other, or lying down, there'sanother possibility, often I feel lying down, it's one of the three, orkneeling. What counts is to be in the world, the posture is immaterial,so long as one is on earth. To breathe is all that is required, thereis no obligation to ramble, or receive company, you may even believeyourself dead on condition you make no bones about it, what moreliberal regimen could be imagined, I don't know, I don't imagine. No pomtunder such circumstances in saying I am somewhere else, someone else,such as I am I have all Ineed to hand, for to do what, I don't know, all I have to do, there I amon my own again at last, what a relief that must be. Yes, there aremoments, like this moment, when I seem almost restored to the feasible.Then it goes, all goes, and I'm far again, with a far story again, Iwait for me afar for my story to begin, to end, and again this voicecannot be mine. That's where I'd go, if I could go, that's who I'd be,if I could be.