
[0894] mystery, deserted by magic, because devoid of mystery.
[0895] And if I do not
go there gladly, I go perhaps more gladly than anywhere else, astonished
and at peace, I nearly said as in a dream, but no, no.
[0896] But it is not the
kind of place where you go, but where you find yourself, sometimes, not
knowing how, and which you cannot leave at will, and where you find
yourself without any pleasure, but with more perhaps than in those you
can escape from, by making an effort, places full of mystery, full of the
familiar mysteries.
[0897] I listen and the voice is of a world collapsing
endlessly, a frozen world, under a faint untroubled sky, enough to see
by, yes, and frozen too.
[0898] And I hear it murmur that all wilts and yields,
as if loaded down, but here there are no loads, and the ground too, unfit
for loads, and the light too, down towards an end it seems can never come.
[0899] For what possible end to these wastes where true light never was, nor any
upright thing, nor any true foundation, but only these leaning things,
forever lapsing and crumbling away, beneath a sky without memory of
morning or hope of night.
[0900] These things, what things, come from where,
made of what?
[0901] And it says that here nothing stirs, has never stirred,
will never stir, except me, who do not stir either, when I am there, but
see and am seen.
[0902] Yes, it's a world at an end, in spite of appearances,
its end brought it forth, ending it began, is it clear enough?
[0903] And I
too am at an end, when I am there, my eyes close, my sufferings cease
and I end, I wither as the living can not.
[0904] And if I went on listening
to that far whisper, silent long since and whicy [place = overwritten] h I still hear, I would
learn still more, about this.
[0905] But I will listen no longer, for the time
being, to that far whispr [place = overwritten] er, for I do not like it, I fear it.
[0906] But it is
not a sound like the other sounds, that you listen to, when you choose,
and you can sometimes silence, by going away or stopping your ears, no,
but it is a sound which begins to rustle in your head, without your
- Segments
Molloy © 2016 Samuel Beckett Digital Manuscript Project.
Editors: Magessa O'Reilly, Dirk Van Hulle, Pim Verhulst and Vincent Neyt