This post is picking up the thread from the one I posted on March.
This time I want to share with you some fragments from his work “The adventures and misadventures of Maqroll”, translated by Edith Grossman.
There is no continuity. Fragments are fragmented.
Thinking about time, trying to find out if past and future are valid and, in fact, exist, leads us into a labyrinth that is no less incomprehensible for being familiar.
A caravan doesn’t symbolize or represent anything. Our mistake is to think it’s going somewhere, leaving somewhere. The caravan exhausts its meaning by merely moving from place to place. The animals in the caravan know this, but the camel drivers don’t. It will always be this way.
Everything we can say about death, everything we try to embroider around the subject, is sterile, entirely fruitless labor. Wouldn’t it be better just to be quiet and wait?
In the ruins of the Krak (des Chevaliers) of the Knights of Rhodes, standing on a cliff near Tripoli (Lebanon), a nameless tombstone bears this inscription: “This was not where”. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about those words. They’re so clear, and at the same time they contain all the mystery it is our lot to endure.
I am the disordered creator of the most obscure routes, the most secret moorings. Their uselessness, their undiscovered location are what feed my days.
By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named Night,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have reached these lands but newly
From an ultimate dim Thule —
From a wild clime that lieth, sublime,
Out of Space — out of Time.
Edgar Allan Poe)
Follow the ships. Follow the routes plowed by worn, melancholy vessels. Don’t stop. Avoid even the humblest anchorage. Sail up the rivers. Lose yourself in the rains that flood the savannas. Deny all shores.