And the jumping clouds rake the land with sun rays. And I said: There will no narrative; I won’t try to tell your story. Time marshalled past, and the lurking insincerity of written thoughts.
It was a rigorous film depicting the pursuit of a certain sort of horror tale development by which men are led down into deep crypts carrying telephone lines in earliest morning never to return. Here we leave them. But there is no one here but me.
And a scattered chapter. And a livid catholic hieroglyph. The portent wound in corridors of shells; the fabulous shadow only the sea keeps.
We have before us a double architecture, one above ground, the other subterranean: labyrinths under the soil, magnificent vast excavations, passages half a mile long, chambers adorned with hieroglyphics, everything worked out with the maximum of care; then above ground there are built in addition those amazing constructions amongst which the pyramids are to be counted the chief.
The shadow of a birch. The tree was struck by lightning and my brother cut it up. You saw the crosspile outdoors: the buried root lies under it, but not the shadow. That is flown, and never will come back, nor ever anywhere stir again.
And I lifted something. I did not see it fall.
And I bent my brow to the Egyptian grammar, and saw the man advancing with one arm raised.
Perhaps at the last I myself will more perfectly come to resemble my own name.