Mute Objects of Expression (21 page)

If this study were to last much longer (it might very well take years . . .), never let myself be beguiled into forgetting the point of all this for me – simply, to record:

The bus (motorcoach) – (the motorcoach from Marseille to Aix) – (at the place known as “La Mounine,” or “Three Pigeons,” or “The Gray Brothers”) – was moving ahead (rather slowly it's true, going uphill).

I was by the shut window, leaning against it, passing unnoticed (unnoticed by myself(?)). The time is important: eight in the morning, late April.

. . .
But
(to tell the truth) I noticed the movement of the bus only at the moment when the statues, the urns, appeared.

Perhaps I should invert the 1st and 2nd ? – Yes, I must.

Also indispensable to compare this to my emotional reaction at Biot and that at Craponne-sur-Arzon (sobs). Maybe the time at the Vieux-Colombier (or at the reading) when the elder Zosima kneels before Dimitri Karamazov; and again in
Les Misérables
when Monsignor Whozits kneels before the old conventionist (perhaps, but not certain). – Those two last sobbing episodes were caused by the noble theatrical coup, the climactic moment of justice rendered, reparation made. – For the others, it was when faced by the tragic element of landscapes, nature's fatality (meteorological) (note:
always involving
skies
) (and always the cinematic: at Biot the express: sudden change of scenery; at Craponne, it was on glancing back from a motorbike).

At Craponne, there was a human element, as at La Mounine (here statues and urns, there steeples, castle turrets, and village rooftops). At Biot, no, it was all “natural”: the sea alone.

The sight of a Cézanne one day (
The Card Players?
): nobility of the attempt compensating for the lack of means (?); and unquestionable reticence.

The restraint of the statues (the cherubs) and the urns, were part of it in the same sense, a large part of it.

At what time – very early morning – had the great stroke of the gong rung out?

From which the whole atmosphere continues vibrating (yet without a sound still audible) and will vibrate on throughout the day?

The sun – impossible to gaze at it for long – lords over all, and its tambourine players circle round, arms raised above their heads.

Why no! All that is wiped clear, through sheer ardor. One could
swear – looking back – that there was nothing but the blue sky, assuredly more vacant than the nocturnal sky.

What authority, what irresistible fist has struck the iron sheet of night to waken day's vibrations, that will vibrate on till they fall still again?

 

What octopus, retreating in the Provence sky, provoked this tragic inking of the situation? Once again, no! This has to do with a heavy gas, not a liquid. Something like the result of an explosion within a sealed chamber of a million blue violet petals.

There's something like a scattering of ashes in the azure and an odor resembling gunpowder.

It's as though the daylight were veiled by the excess of its own luster. This daylight amounts to night, this ashen-blue light. It holds its shade diffused within its luster. It holds its shade in the grip of its luster.

An irresistible fist has struck the iron sheet of night until it
vibrates
into white oblivion. From break of day. And the vibrations will amplify on till noon.

Apart from these vibrations an immobility holds forth, a stupefaction like that which follows gun shots, irreparable acts, crimes. – That's how I approach the usual expressions about the malediction
of the azure: “I'm haunted! The azure, the azure, the azure!” What had happened? Why this terrible authority of the skies over this very simple landscape, this orderly plotted landscape, this landscape of Roman law?

Why this severity, this punishment by intense light, inflicting clear cut shadow on the slightest debris, on the merest dust clot?

Why this suffocation, this brutality, these dark hues? Aren't they simply the ransom paid for fine weather?

Every small beast under the sun has ducked back into its hole. Stones and vegetation alone can withstand it, remain prey to the terrible light.

And suddenly to a few statues, man's preoccupation is revealed. He exposes them to the sun, he presents them to it, offers them to it; and in another sense he sets them in opposition to it. He has just placed them before it, as an artisan, much as the baker at the oven's hearth offers – presents – his bread to the fire . . .

Such fleeting meteors are not among the easiest to describe.

Each thing stands as though at the rim of a precipice, at the rim of a shadow so clear-cut and so dark that it seems to gouge the soil. Each thing is at the rim of
its own
precipice – like a billiard ball at the rim of its pocket.

 

 

Is blue-black truly the most fluid ink for pens? Azure touched with pencil lead: what octopus retreating into the depths of the Provence sky provoked this tragic inking of the situation?

Or is it, drop by drop, a matter of a poisonous infusion that begins as sky
(ciel)
and finishes as
azure?
⁴

It's a matter of congestion. (So much azure has accumulated.)

The houses, the close-set tiles, keep their eyelids closed. The trees, heads throbbing, avoid moving the slightest leaf. No! It has to do with the explosion within a sealed chamber of a billion blue violets' petals.

 

At the place known as “La Mounine” between Marseille and Aix one April morning around eight o'clock, through the window of the bus, the sky though limpid above the gardens appeared to me mingled with shadow.

What octopus retreating out of the Provence sky had provoked this tragic inking of the situation?

Or wasn't it instead something like the result of the explosion within a sealed chamber of a billion petals of blue violets?

There was something like a scattering of ashes in the azure, and I'm not sure the odor wasn't like gunpowder.

One felt something like a congestion of the azure. The houses, with pressure on their temples, kept eyelids shut. The trees looked stricken with headaches: they avoided moving the slightest leaf.

It was as though the daylight were veiled by the excess of its own luster. This daylight amounts to night, I thought, this ashen-blue light. It holds fast to its shadow in the clutches of its luster. The shadow holds fast to its diffused luster.

Whence this terrible authority of the skies? What fist has struck the iron sheet of night, to make it vibrate so, become so radiant, its vibrations amplifying on till noon?

And how does it happen that such immobility holds forth, like the pause that so curiously follows on decisive acts, on gun shots, rapes, or murders?

Why this severity over the landscape that's generally so unremarkable, this legally plotted countryside, this landscape under Roman law?

Why this pathetic despondence? Is this the price to pay for beautiful day? A beautiful day is also a meteor, not the easiest to describe, no doubt . . .

 

At the place known as “La Mounine” not far from Aix-en-Provence one spring morning at first light, the sky though limpid through the foliage appeared to me mingled with shadow.

I don't believe that rancorous night, to avenge its retreat from above these regions, had drained its heavy octopus heart of blue-black ink to our detriment.

 

I don't believe the octopus night so rancorous for its retreat beyond the horizon as to have wished to drain the blue-black ink from its heavy heart on this occasion.

 

 

The point is to
describe
the sky clearly, just as it appeared to me and impressed me so deeply.

From this description, or following from it, will rise in simple terms
the explanation
of my deep emotion.

That I was so moved can undoubtedly be attributed to the revelation, through this form, of an important aesthetic and moral principle.

From the intensity of my emotion, the tenacity of my efforts to account for it, and the scruples that forbade my skimping on the description of it, I can gauge the importance of that law.

I must uncover this law, this
lesson
(La Fontaine would have said this moral). It could just as readily be a scientific law, a theorem.

. . . So then, initially, a sob, an emotion with no apparent cause (the feeling of
beauty
is not enough to explain it. Why this feeling?
Beauty
is a word that replaces another).

This means clarifying and casting light, uncovering the reasons (for my emotions) and the law (of this landscape), making this landscape
serve
for something other than an aesthetic sob, inducing it to become a logical, moral tool, inducing the mind and spirit to make great strides on its behalf.

My whole philosophic and poetic stance lies within this problem.

Note that I'm undergoing huge difficulties due to the vast number of images that flock to my disposal (and mask, lay masks on, reality) due to the originality of my point of view (strangeness would be more like it) – to my excessive (Protestant) scruples – to my immoderate ambition, etc.

Steadily emphasizing that the whole secret of victory lies in the scrupulous accuracy of the description: “I was impressed by
this
and
that
”: there must be no backing down on this, no rearranging, it must be performed in a truly scientific manner.

Once again this means plucking (from the tree of science) the forbidden fruit, with all due deference to the powers of shadow that dominate us, to Monsieur God in particular.

This means actively militating (modestly but effectively) for the “light” and against obscurantism – the obscurantism that threatens to submerge us once again in the 20th century through a return to the barbarous conditions advocated by the bourgeoisie as the sole means of saving its privileges.