“Unfortunately I am afraid, as always, of
going on. For to go on means going from here, means finding me, losing me,
vanishing and beginning again, a stranger first, then little by little the same
as always, in another place, where I shall say I have always been, of which I
shall know nothing, being incapable of seeing, moving, thinking, speaking, but
of which little by little, in spite of these handicaps, I shall begin to know
something, just enough for it to turn out to be the same place as always, the
same which seems made for me and does not want me, which I seem to want and do
not want, take your choice, which spews me out or swallows me up, I’ll never
know, which is perhaps merely the inside of my distant skull where once I
wandered, now am fixed, lost for tininess, or straining against the walls, with
my head, my hands, my feet, my back, and ever murmuring my old stories, my old
story, as if it were the first time.”
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