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tahar ben jalloun
things to the side. I need
more of a desire to make an
effort. My tastes distance
themselves and are replaced
by something I have always
hated: indifference. I have
the feeling of having been
put to the side, into a reserve,
in a cave. I am in a second-
hand store: used furniture,
piled-up dinner sets, lifeless
mirrors, lamp shades without
lights, plastic knick-knacks,
some bad paintings, designs,
reproductions destroyed by
the humidity, moth-eaten
carpets, an overly expensive
Saint-Louis jug, a 60 ’s
jukebox… and then me. Left
there on a shelf, I shrivel up
and make myself small. I hide
myself. I no longer speak.
I breathe painfully. I don’t
even feel sadness or grief. I
have no emotion; except the
emotion of nothing.
I really like Degas and his
women: some lie on their
backs, others sit facing
forward or crouched, others
dry their legs, do their hair,
scrub themselves, but their
hairiness is not evident. I
would know. Degas painted
women as if he were viewing
them through a keyhole.
At that time, bodies were
covered, full of grace. I note
that I have no desire at all
for these creatures. Erosion
does its job. I would like to
be dissolved like in a bad
dream where everything
is liquid. The whirlwind of
emptiness is accompanied by
carnival music. An accordion
harasses me and I can’t
escape it. At the present
time, it seemed necessary
to save my solitude. I hold
it and I know neither the
beauty painted by Degas
nor that of Caravaggio nor
the splendor of Vivaldi. I