The end of the world is a beginning in itself.

To the tune of Ravel’s Boléro. I repeat: “He” is a woman.

It is inevitable. Nothing can be otherwise.

This is where the world comes from.

It is to him that everything will return.

In this particular case, “He” is a woman.

In reality, there is no reality,

and therefore everything I am going to say in his name is null and void.

You too, in his name, are not reality.

You may be something, but not that.

•  

They do not love me as I am.

They love me as I am not.

For what I am not.

No one follows who I am.

No one will ever know who I am.

Not even me.

In this particular case, there is no reality.

You may be reality, but not this.

You may be something, but what?

•  

Since it is true that there is no reality,

there is no truth.

And what is true is not always the truth.

Therefore, there is nothing of truth, and there is nothing true.

I declare that there is neither truth nor true things.

Everything I am going to assert here must be considered null and void.

Just one thing: It is impossible to assert anything.

•  

There are moments when you have no choice,

you have to, you cannot do otherwise,

it is a duty, something or someone imposes it upon you,

you must do it, you have no choice,

or else it is a system… at least, that is how it must be.

You do not really know, it weighs on you, but it is inevitable.

•  

So here we are, here to ask ourselves who he is,

what he is, or even what he is not.

As a general rule (we agree, there is no rule…

you are beginning to understand.)…

It is considered (same thing) that he does not exist.

It is also considered that he is old and very bearded,

that he gives presents on December 8th,

that he is in the image of men…

Or that he does not exist.

Some, indeed, undecided, bet their lives on his existence.

Just as we do not know whether we will ever know.

Most of us prefer to tell ourselves that he does.

•  

So I will say nothing in his name,

because I do not know what he is called.

Perhaps he is called?

Not everyone is sure of this fact.

There therefore remains a doubt, and it is this doubt that concerns us.

Perhaps much more than love,

perhaps much more than death,

although these three things are probably only one.

•  

For a long time I thought that this was the end of the world,

but the twelve hours passed like honey cake.

Certainly, a honey cake tasting of war, famine,

stupidity and incomprehensible rage…

How banal to talk about it. They will think it is a cliché,

an annoying, overdone subject…

But it is a sad commonplace to say that some are hungry

and others are unhappy.

It does not matter. Everyone is hungry, everyone is unhappy.

And our earth is a sad commonplace.

•  

Or perhaps it is men?

Those makers of misery…

And what if there were more hours?

Would we be happier with forty-eight-hour days?

No one knows…

Perhaps he does?

Perhaps he is “null”?

•  

Paper-mâché revolution.

Everything is paper-mâché.

•  

And already the disorder, already the dis-order, of what has begun, continues, comes to an end…

Not disorder in the sense of chaos.

But dis-order, the refusal to obey, rebellion, the one who submits to nothing.

Not even a thinking reed.

There, Maud, he is nothing.

There is nothing that cannot be.

Neither absent nor present, nothing but the word, the fantasy of thought.

Let us bet on that. It is already something gained, since we will never know together which of the two has won.

But it is probably Pascal.

Who knows?

Deep down, is it necessary to know?

Would pleasure not come from the pleasure of never knowing?

This is how Everything never begins.

But if you want, let us talk about something else,

although whatever we say, it will come back to this,

or else we will speak of nothing and that will amount to not speaking of this.

Not speaking about it is different from not speaking, you will agree.

Very well, then, on these facts, let us part.

I would rather it happened this way.

Come, let us embrace.

It is already the end.

•  

Please, kindly write a cheque payable to the order of the end of the world!

We will cash it immediately, right now,

because it is already the end of the world,

for everyone, for us, for you too.

It is already our end of the world.

We will have to begin again,

like the nameless arcanum,

the thirteenth arc-ass,

a beastly fantasy moving forward without knowing,

unhooked, hooked onto the moon,

in short, we will have to pay for all this;

and begin again, above all begin again,

without faults, without mistakes, without wandering…

Let us pay for the disorder!

Yes, let us pay with our own persons!

No one, no one should have to pay!

Rise up, O sea, there is a world to remake!

Stop rumbling, destroying, crying out,

we can no longer hear you,

or rather, yes, we hear you all too well,

we are you, the sea,

we are you, the belly from which everything took form and life.

We will obey you in nothingness,

and you will do as you please,

since it is good for you,

and since we are but one,

you, the sea,

and we, the bitter.

We will acquire a taste for you

and transform ourselves into your goodwill,

no more storms to scold us,

we are you, the sea,

we came from your waters

and we respect you.

We drink and eat at your breast,

your cereals with their salty taste,

your liqueurs in amber hues.

From your garment,

of green, of brown, of sea spray…

We will clothe ourselves in you

and clothe you in turn.

Rise up, O sea,

there is a world to undo!

A world that has gone rotten

like fruit on a tree that never fell,

and simply remained there, continuing to rot.

Perhaps weary.

Then we must rise,

let ourselves be carried away,

in one great impulse, undo everything,

and make way for what will be new,

what will be love for you,

a life entirely beautiful and so gentle,

whose evil is natural,

freed from the evil that men have placed upon a silver throne,

balanced over the void…

A ramp put in place.

Crawling along the ground like rats,

like larvae,

like tidal waves…

Like you, the sea,

we are you,

born from you,

from your innermost entrails,

from your volcanoes,

your earthquakes,

your passions,

your ardour,

your desires.

We will transform ourselves into love for you,

and we will depart like you,

waters of your body,

towards other shores,

a living and fluid people,

an integral homeland of you.

And already nothingness,

already beginning again…

•  

“For the preparation of vermilion, a mixture of mercury and sulphur is sublimated.”

This is how the synthesis of vermilion was described by Geber in eighth-century Persia.

•  

I put my feet in the dish,

or only my fingers,

a finger of the countryside.

In another life I will be a grocer’s loaf,

and I will establish my own brotherhood,

made up of my one and only person

and my delicious gingerbread,

made from rye flour, honey,

a little cinnamon and pepper.

I will then be highly esteemed.

And I will wash my fingers clean of it,

by Saint Remy!

But wait a moment,

this smells a little like mustard…