As soon as one begins to “fail,” instead of being upset about it, one should invoke the right of no longer being oneself.
We obtain almost everything, except what we secretly crave. No doubt it is fair that what we most desire should be unattainable, that the essential of ourselves and of our course through life should remain hidden and unrealized. Providence has managed things well; let each of us derive the pride and the prestige linked to intimate debacles.
Words too fall to the ground,
like birds suddenly driven crazy
by their own movements,
like objects that suddenly lose their balance,
like men who stumble even when there’s no obstacle,
like dolls estranged by their own rigidity.
Then, the words themselves build a stairway
from the ground,
to climb up to human discourse,
to its stutter
or final sentence.
But some words remain forever fallen.
And sometimes we find such words
in an almost larval mimesis,
as if they knew someone were going to come
gather them up and build a new language,
a language made up entirely of fallen words.