sábado, 9 de abril de 2011

White Spaces | Paul Auster


[…] I remain in the room in which 

I am writing this. I put one foot in front of the other. I put one word in front of the other, and for each step
I take I add another word, as if for each word to be spoken there were another space to be crossed,
a distance to be filled by my body
 

as it moves through this space. It is 

a journey through space, even if I get nowhere, even if I end up in the same place I started. It is a journey through space, as if into many cities and out of them, as if across desert, as if to the edge of some imaginary ocean, where each thought drowns 

in the relentless waves of the real. 

I put one foot in front of the other, and then I put the other foot in front of the first, which has now become the other and which will again become the first. I walk within these four walls, and for as long as I am here I can go anywhere I like. I can go from one end of the room to the other and touch any of the four walls, or even all the walls, one after the other, exactly as I like. If the spirit moves me I can stand in the center, of the room. If the spirit moves me in another direction, I can stand in any one of the four corners. Sometimes 

I touch one of those four corners and in this way bring myself into contact with two walls at the same time.
Now and then I let my eyes roam up to the ceiling, and when I am particularly exhausted by my efforts there is always the floor to welcome my body. The light, streaming through the windows, never casts the same shadow twice, and at any given moment I feel myself on the brink of discovering some terrible, unimagined truth. These are moments of great happiness for me. […] 

in Selected Poems, London 1998

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