Path and Road
Date: Tue, 2 May 1995 23:18:25
Path and Road
From Jabes, The Book of Dialogue:
A young man went to see his Teacher and said: "May I talk to you?" The Teacher answered: "Come back tomorrow. Then we'll talk." The day after, the young man came back and said: "May I talk to you?" As on the day before, the Teacher answered: "Come back tomorrow. Then we'll talk." "I came yesterday and asked you this same question," replied the young man, disappointed. "Do you refuse to talk to me?" "We have been in dialogue since yesterday," replied the Teacher, smiling. "Whose fault if we have bad ears?"From Jabes, The Ineffaceable The Unperceived:THE PRE-EXISTENCE OF THE LAST BOOK The last book is the book of God, a book which would have been man's first had he been able to write it. Then there would be books and books all claiming to be the last. We shall never know the last book; perhaps because we have always, dimly, known it? Likewise God. You do not write what you know, but what you are unaware you know and then discover, without surprise, you have always known. As one knows that death is the end or that in a few hours it will be day. As if you were, in short, exploring a past diverted from the course of your memory, but originally yours.From Jabes, The Book of Resemblances:The book leans on the void.From Jabes, The Book of Resemblances:Any book is but a dim likeness of the lost book. "In each of us," he said, "there is a book that transforms us into words, as blood forms in the blood. "To each utterance each word, corresponds a heartbeat. "The book's price is the price of an alliance." (translation, Rosmarie Waldrop)The uncanny (dis)ordering of the book, book and Book, letters fluttered against the desert like sand unto sand, the ordering is implicate, folded, folds upon folds, the skin of the body turned, sloughed in the sun of the desert, glowing in the midst of sand melted into translucent glass. O the book is singularity, encompassing trace, paths of glass sheeting, discourse of continuity, utterance upon utterance beneath the burning wires of the sun, O the book writes itself upon us, inscribes us one to another, the gainsaying of death, lost voice dying out before writing brings us to ourselves, Jabes, "No book is complete." Jabes, "The world is exiled in the name. Within it there is the book of the world." Jabes, "I am a man's wanderings, path and road." We are your wandering.
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