for Maurice Blanchot
He challenged her, went straight for her heart, like a boxer—trim, winged, powerful—centered in the offensive and defensive geometry of his legs. His glance weighed the fine points of his adversary who was content to break off fighting, suspended between a pleasant virginity and knowledge of him. On the white surface where the combat was being held, both forgot the inexorable spectators. The given names of the flowers of summer’s first day fluttered in the June air. Finally a slight grimace crossed the adversary’s cheek and a streak of pink appeared. The riposte flashed back, brusque and to the point. His legs suddenly like linen on the line, the man floated, staggered. But the opposing fists did not pursue their advantage, refusing to conclude the match. Now the two fighters’ battered heads nodded against each other. At that instant the first must have purposely pronounced into the second’s ear words so perfectly offensive, or appropriate, or enigmatic, that the latter let fly a lightning bolt, abrupt, complete, precise, which knocked the incomprehensible fighter out cold.
Certain beings have a meaning that escapes us. Who are they? Their secret resides in the deepest part of life’s own secret. They draw near. Life kills them. But the future they have thus awoken with a murmur, sensing them, creates them. O labyrinth of utmost love!
[NK]