E . M . CIORAN
281
He does not live in time but parallel to time. That is why it never oc–
curred to me to ask him what he thought of such and such an event. He is
one of those beings who makes you realize that history is a dimension man
could have dispensed with .
.. ..
..
Even
if
he were like his heroes, even
if
he had never known success, he
would still have been exactly the same. He gives the impression of never
wanting to assert himself at all, of being estranged from notions of success
and failure equally. "How hard it is to figure him out! And what class he
has!" That's what I say to myself every time I think of him. If, by some im–
possible chance, he were hiding no secrets at all, to my eyes he would still
appear inscrutable.
I come from a corner of Europe where effusiveness, lack of inhibition,
immediate unsolicited shameless avowals are the rule, where one knows
everything about everybody, where living with other people is equivalent to
a public confessional, where secrets in fact are inconceivable and where volu–
bility borders on delirium.
This alone would suffice to explain why I was to fall under the spell of a
man who is uncannily discrete.
.. .. ..
About five years ago, we met by chance on Rue Guynemer; he asked
if
I
were working, and I told him that I had lost my taste for work, that I didn't
see the necessity of bestirring myself, of "producing," that writing was an
ordeal for me.... He seemed astonished by this, and I myself was even
more astonished when, precisely in reference to writing, he spoke of
joy.
Did he really use that word? Yes, I am sure of it. At the same moment I re–
called that at our first meeting, some ten years earlier at the Closerie des
Lilas, he had confessed to me his great weariness, the feeling he had that
nothing could be squeezed out ofwords anymore.
Words-will anyone love them as much as he has? They are his com–
panions and his sole support. This man who takes no certitude for granted–
one feels how confident and secure he is among them. His fits of discourage–
ment undoubtedly coincide with the moments when he ceases to believe in
them, when he feels they are failing him, eluding him. Without them, he is
left dispossessed, he is nowhere. I regret not having marked and counted all
the passages in his work where he refers to words, where he reflects upon
words-"drops of silence in silence," as they are described in
The Unnam-
