Trafika Europe 12 - French Bon-Bons

Louis Armand

Monsieur Malraux meant was that only as long as there are things which cannot be known, can we be sure we exist. Imagine a world in which God is real. What hope would we possibly have? Each man would be nothing more than a piece on a chess board, empty of all indi- viduality, except that which he is allowed by virtue of nothing more profound than ignorance.’ ‘You’re depressing me.’ ‘Am I? Well, there’s nothing to prevent you believing the opposite, either.’ I lapsed once more into silence. If there was something I’d expected from Volta, I couldn’t define it. I wanted to explain about the Black Book. For weeks I’d been puzzling over it, trying to force sense out of it. I read and reread the same notes—went in circles—sat on the roof—repeating a pattern. And each Thursday I’d obedi- ently waited outside Volta’s office, only to be sent away with metaphysics and yet another prescription. I was at the end of my resources—there was nothing more I could do— and, worst of all, no real reason to persist. My dreams reflected my state of mind— dreams full of coded geometries spiralling ever‐inwards—the alpha, beta, gamma, delta of angles, sines and cosines, the infinity of the circle, the alphabet of hidden paradigms. Every night I struggled with them like an insomnia. ‘Life needn’t be so difficult as you make it seem to your- self. A game, after all, is just a game.’

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