No one can know my anxiety.
Foreboding of a death that shall not pass me by
for which I am inescapably destined
but which makes my existence my own.
The dying of which anxiety is the premonition can be shared with no one
allows of no generalization.
The others, in passing away, immobilize into cadavers
Which subsist in a world which subsists.
I don’t know their demise.
In that silence I feel in my own soul
when I find myself continuing to address my private thoughts
to that other from whom my distress recognizes that henceforth
no response shall come.
But there is nothing in common between that silence
and that immobilization in the plenitude of a world intact
exposed to my observation
and the menace whose approach is unlocatable
and which weighs inwardly on my heart
like a personal condemnation
The instantaneous engulfment of the world about me
in total and definitive void.
Dying eludes comprehension.
It is what we cannot take hold of
but on the contrary comes to take us.
That is, to take me.
For if dying is incomprehensible
that is not because it is invisible and intangible,
It is because it is radically singular.
Unconceptualizable, being ungeneralizable
it is not therefore unintelligible.
As purely possible, the pure possible
it is the first intelligible
inherently understood in all understanding.
The understanding of the singular death makes understanding real
understanding of reality for all real beings are in the singular.
What is intelligible is not at first a singular being
a being that exists in the first person singular
but the singularity of non-being
the incomparable and solitary absoluteness
of nothingness unrelentingly closing in on me.
Nothingness cannot make sense
make itself sensed
except as a singular and unrepeatable catastrophe
in the specificity of my own destination forward.
Its truth consists in this correspondence.
I do not get a sense of being singular
a being unto myself
from my sense of being active.
a cause, a power in the world.
For my first gearing into the world effaces me.
In taking form my existence generalizes, becomes anonymous.
What disengages something singular
a pulse, a trouble,
a question of existence between the tropisms of life in general
that my functioning practical life instanciates
is the singular fate that closes in on it.
The singular and incomparable dying
for which this existence is uniquely destined.
The singularity of an existence in the first person singular
does not consist in the singularity in the nucleus of ego
whose acts and states are comprehensible in categories.
It consists in a single and singular trajectory of time
projected to its incomparable end.
This time, engendering and appropriating itself
disconnected from objective and universal time
is the form of the first person singular.
In disconnecting itself from recurrence
in casting itself, with all its own forces, into the void
existence goes nowhere else than into the world.
The world is the order ordaining things
the cosmos that holds all things together
the possible that engenders all things
the space of clearing that opens to give space to things
and it is also the emptiness of space
interminable zone of the uncanny in which we cannot fix our dwelling.
It is the embrace of the world that makes our power,
our existence, real.
But these embraces ineluctably fail.
The end nothingness is everywhere latent
and in opening the door upon the landscape of the world
I open it up upon the abyss.
In advancing down the pathways of the world
I very certainly go to my death
with one and the same movement.
Existence projects itself, fascinated,
into the world, and projects itself anxiously unto its death.
The movement of existence is a groping.
The immanence of my death discloses to me
my impotence with regards to my birth.
Destined to death, delivered over to being
such is the specific nature of my passivity.
The passivity of ecstatic existence
ecstatic existence in delivering itself of its own being
is effected by things and afflicted with itself.
To be delivered over to being
is to be delivered over to death.
It is to be subject to things
not only as a subject
to which their refracted attributes can inhere
but subjects to them, exposed to their forms and their qualities
and also to their force and their aggression
mortified by them.
It is an essential mortal structure.
It is expressed in our taste for the colours,
in our ear, for what is intoned across the fields of being
our appetite for the honey and the lees of the day.
If a mortal force of life can still assemble and steer itself
it is because it makes contact with the ground
a density of being closed in itself
the supporting element of the terrestrial
a grain of substance that takes form under the hand
the opaque still sustains the palpitation of the gaze.
Beneath the general and abstract outlines of the recurrent things
a mortal clairvoyance discerns the unrecurrent
the ephemeral, the fleeting.
It discerns a field of chances
understands real beings
which are in the singular.
The singular death immanent about me
takes form in the singular constellation of possibilities,
instrumentalities, chances, and snares
which forms the singular landscape
of the sensible world arrayed for me.