DENIS EMORINE
Excerpts from No Through World (DANS LES IMPASSES DU MONDE, EDITIONS DU GRIL, 2002 Belgium)
Ravenna Press, 2004
translated by Phillip John Usher


" And so one fine day, my life up and left me without a word of warning, not the least wave of a hand bidding adieu in my direction.  Normally, it would nod a conniving nod to me, smile a little smile to make me look right back but, in reality, I’d always turn away, irritated or indifferent so, in the end, life took its revenge.  How could I blame life?  It was obviously more and more difficult to live with someone like me, always absent or morose.  And of course, you can’t expect life to be happy with just looking on at you in silence: life needs to speak out loud, to constantly burst out laughing, to play simple and meaningless games with someone who loves it.  And, as I could never satisfy life, life got tired of it.  “One day, it won’t be me, it will be my fatal sister who’ll take my place, and then you’ll see how you’ll miss me,” life said in exasperation.

            I shrugged my shoulders after seeing what I thought to be conceitedness.  How superficial!  Life always takes you at your word... when you don’t say anything!  Life knows that behind every silence there’s very often a need to talk that’s too strong, a need to shout out loud.

            This time, my life up and left me without a word of warning.  It took me unawares.  I was walking peacefully along the street when, all of a sudden, behind me, someone whispered my name in a strange voice, like that of a child.  My legs started to tremble and by the time I’d turned around, my life had scarpered, run off with another man.  The two of them were roaring with laughter and paid no attention to me.  They looked so happy I almost felt pleased for them.  But then, everything started to become unsteady and I realized that I was starting a new chapter, there was no going back.  I wanted, once again, to say out loud those four magic letters, L-I-F-E but my mouth couldn’t articulate the least sound.  My pen fell, the page is crumpled: I no longer had anything to say.

            It’s at exactly that moment that the Other came up to me . . . "


" I decided to banish all the useless words from my vocabulary.  Useless in my eyes, that is.  Like a monarch with absolute power, I ordered all the words into my office.  It was all —and this should be pointed out— indescribable in its disorderliness; I didn’t know which way to look faced with all this frantic faces trying not to look at me.  And there I was, gloating, dragging out the pleasure... I was waiting.

 

I’m still waiting.  I cannot bring myself to name one word—that would be like making it suddenly exist, albeit fleetingly.  I have the whole of eternity in front of me. "

 


" Last Thursday, I had invited François to have lunch with me.  He’s an old friend, a trained psychologist.  We were eating desert and he was setting out one of his never-ending theories about the human psyche.  I was listening to him, absently at first but then, all of a sudden, something he said caught my attention: “So it would seem that every human being is double.  In fact, each individual is fractured inside.  Like you, for example”, he said pointing at me.

            I pulled myself up right away, rankled by his suggestion.  “What, me?  How dare you?”

            He pretended not to see this fierce reaction: “Yes, you too are double, split into two like every other human being.”

            I grabbed hold of him, roughly—I’m aware of that.  “Get out, get out, you hoaxer and deceiver!” I yelled out, beside myself.  Before he could react, I had dragged him to the main door.

            François was still as spineless.  I opened the door, and threw this uncouth individual outside, with all my force.  My friend—should I still use such a word?—fell down the stairs; there were no shouts, just a funny kind of a noise.

            Worried nonetheless, I went down a few steps.  François was lying there, his body literally broken in two, broken into two symmetrical parts split from head to toe; I couldn’t believe it.  The two halves stood up as best they could, and each tried in vain to adjust itself to fit back with the other half.

            I got frightened and ran back inside, shutting and bolting the door.  I didn’t dare look outside, as you can understand.

            “He was thus right, the little rascal!” I grumbled.  I ran my feverish hand down my spine, and I was sure that I could feel a slight crack into which I slipped first one finger, then two, then my whole hand.

            A sinister creaking sound in my backbone was certainly not a good omen . . . "

" A few days ago, I lost my name.  How did that happen, you might ask.  Well, as simply as can be.  That day, late afternoon, I had a bit of a headache.  I decided to go outside and walked around a little in the garden.  The fresh air of this early October day would do me some good, I thought.  I didn’t know what was about to hatch.  Otherwise, of course, I would never have gone outside alone: how careless, can you believe it!

 

Once outside, the cold air grabbed hold of me despite the thick coat I’d taken the precaution to put on.  I went towards my favorite spot, the dogwood hedge.  Then, as I was about to reach it... how can I put it?  How can I describe the new feeling?  Something—that I would be unable to name—quite literally sucked my name out from inside of me.  I didn’t feel the slightest pain, no, not a thing.  Simply, now lacking all identity, I was unable to find my direction correctly.  Finally, miraculously, I think I crawled back to the house, to the great surprise of the neighbors staring out from behind their curtains.

 

Every day, every hour, I want to beg the dogwood bushes to give it back.  To give what back? you ask.  Well... my... Let’s see... What were we talking about?  Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten. "


" When I walked into room number 256, the old man stared at me without seeing me.  He remained immobile in his wheelchair, pointing his finger obstinately at the half-open window.

            I gave in to his silent demand, went over to behind his wheelchair, and together we went off towards the elevator.  As we went down to the hospital garden, he didn’t say a word.

            Once we were outside, he became a little livelier as I guided him with some difficulty towards the July sun.  He looked left and right at the clumps of blooming flowers but, and I don’t know why, it was becoming more and more difficult to correctly guide him.  Sweat was running down my shoulders.  I leaned into the chair with all my weight to push him along.  The old man didn’t even seem to notice he was so captivated by all that was around him.  We were making painfully slow progress and I could already see that I would soon be unable to take one more step.

            Little by little... How can I explain it?  Little by little, the old man was undergoing some form of metamorphosis.  I could feel the old man was under the control of some other force—really, what an idea!  I could feel that he was escaping me, as if he about to fly off!

            I was transpiring more and more, my shirt was heavy with sweat and my legs were stiff because of the strain; they were like lead.  All of a sudden, I realized that it wasn’t a question of pushing him, but of holding him back.

            Indeed, he was operating the wheels of his chair with an increasing amount of skill, the skill of a devil, I’d say, and was risking us both tumbling down to the floor.  The old man sounded his pleasure in little grunting sounds.  His excitation worried me.  What was he up to?  “Come on, come on, let’s be reasonable”, I mumbled quietly as if speaking to a child doing something he shouldn’t.

            All of a sudden, something hit me in the face, at eye level, and then it felt like someone was pushing my side with tremendous force.  I crashed down like a huge mass with a sharp pain in my legs.

            I believe that, before I passed out, I caught a glimpse of the wheelchair heading off with its owner at an amazing pace . . .


When the man came into room 256, I stared at him without seeing him.  I remained immobile in my wheelchair.  He reminded me of someone.  I pointed obstinately to the half-open window.  He nodded “No” with a strange smile on his face before disappearing abruptly. "


" Several years earlier, a man in gray had formed the habit of following me.  I quickly got used to him being there, there was nothing hostile about it.  Quite the opposite, in fact, after the initial surprise, the slight worries I had gave way to complete serenity.  For sure, the situation was anything but banal.  He would follow without respite, at all hours of the day and night.  How did he do it?  How was he aware of where I was going, at what time I was going out? Right down to the second.  Very mysterious.  As I traveled abroad (Venice, Lisbon, Prague, Bucharest, and still elsewhere), my silent companion would follow me like a shadow, always dressed in gray whatever the season.  At home in Paris, it was just the same.

            However, something was puzzling me: no matter how quickly I spun around, I was never able to see him well enough to take a good look, not even for an instant.  This strange character was always a few meters behind me, eternally riveted to each step that I took.  At times, I wondered if it wasn’t some illusion playing with me.  Maybe I was the only person to see this stranger, perhaps I was the victim of hallucinations or some unabating obsessions.  But no.

            In the beginning, I would draw the attention of my friends and travel companions to the fact that I was dealing with this adamant presence.  They would always reply they couldn’t see what there was to get alarmed about: surely, I didn’t think I was the only person in the street, the only tourist in the whole world, now; this presence was just a simple pedestrian, no more special than any other.  I never managed to convince them that it kept happening.  No one could ever remember seeing the man in gray hanging from my shirttails for eternity.  I thus stopped talking about it so people wouldn’t think I was mad.

 

Over all these years, I’ve never managed to see clearly the face of the man in gray.  My follower never attempted to make contact with me.  Who was he?  Where did he come from?  I eventually stopped asking such questions to which a sane man’s logic could not bring any plausible answer.

One day, I decided that I too would put on a gray suit.  Partly out of bravado.  I spent a long time choosing the ideal suit in the shop of a well-known tailor.  I wasn’t exactly sure as to the exact shade of this indefinable color.  Were his clothes ash-gray? mouse-gray? or pearl-gray?  None, really.  It was more subtle, just like the mysterious character himself who spent his existence following someone with whom, at least as far as clothes went, he had nothing in common with.

            With my new look, I left my apartment.  I seemed perfectly detached.  In reality, and with no particular reason, I was on the look out.  I waited for a few minutes in front of Hotel El Destino.  A man walked past me quickly.  Without thinking, I started following him.

            Ever since, I’ve gotten into the habit of following him.  He rapidly got used to me being there, there was nothing hostile about it. "


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