Read The Stream of Life for Free Online Page B

will be born I don't know when. I wanted so much to die of health. Like someone who explodes. Éclater is better: j'éclate. For the time being, there's dialogue with you. Later, it will be a monologue. Then, silence. I know there will be an order.
    Once again the chaos readies itself, like instruments tuning up to play electronic music. I'm improvising and the beauty of what I improvise is a fugue. I feel throbbing within me the prayer as yet unformed. I feel I'm going to ask to have the facts merely trickle down me without getting me wet. I'm ready for the great silence of death. I'm going to sleep.
    I'm up again. Ready for the coup de grâce. Because I'm tired of defending myself. I'm innocent. Even ingenuous, because I give myself without guarantees. I was born by Order, I'm completely calm. I breathe by Order. I don't have a life style: I've achieved the impersonal, which is so difficult to do. In a little while the Order is going to command me to go beyond the maximum. To go beyond the maximum is to live the pure element. There are people who cannot stand it: they throw up. But I'm used to blood.
    What beautiful music I hear deep within myself. It's made of geometric lines crisscrossing in the air. It's chamber music. Chamber music is melody-less. It's a way of expressing silence. What I'm writing you is chamber music.
    And what I'm trying to write is a way of debating with myself. I'm terrified. Why on this Earth were there dinosaurs? how is a race extinguished?
    I see that I'm writing as if I were between sleep and
    vigil.
    Suddenly I see that there's much I'm not understanding. Is the blade of my knife going dull? It seems to me that most probably I don't understand because what I see now is difficult: I'm entering surreptitiously into contact with a reality new to me that still doesn't have thoughts that correspond, much less a word to signify it: it's a sensation behind thought.
    And, behold, my evil dominates me. I'm still the cruel queen of the Medes and the Persians and I'm also a slow evolution that extends itself like a drawbridge toward a future whose milky mists I already breathe. My aura is the mystery of life. Renouncing my name, I go beyond myself, and then I am the world. I follow the voice of the world with my single voice.
    What I write you has no beginning: it's a continuation. From the words of this song, a song that's mine and yours, there arises a halo that transcends the lines ... do you feel it? My experience comes from the fact that I've already been able to paint the halo of things. The halo is more important than the things and than the words. The halo is vertiginous. I shove the word into the barren emptiness . . . a word is like a fine, monolithic block that projects a shadow. And it's a heraldic trumpet that proclaims. The halo is the it.
    I need to feel the it of the animals again. It's been a long time since I've come into contact with primitive animal life. I have a need to study animals. I want to capture the it in order to be able to paint not an eagle and a horse but a horse with the open wings of a giant eagle.
    I tremble all over when I enter into physical contact with animals or with the mere sight of them. Animals fantasticate me. They're the time that one can't count as it passes by. I seem to have a certain horror of the living creature that is not human and that has my own instincts, although free and indomitable. An animal never substitutes one thing for another.
    Animals don't laugh. Although sometimes a dog laughs. Beyond the panting mouth the smile is transmitted by eyes turned brilliant and more sensual as the tail wags in happy anticipation. But a cat never laughs. A "he" I know doesn't want to know anything more about cats. He had his fill of cats forever when a certain she-cat he had went into periodic fits. Its instincts were so overpowering that when it went into heat, after long and plaintive meows, it would throw itself off the roof and lie wounded on the