“The factory is immense, but the immensity is in pieces; we are in an infinity divided into pieces. This is what Leslie Kaplan teaches me, far from Pascal: the infinite, but the infinite in pieces." —Maurice Blanchot
"I think we've never spoken of the factory as this book has. It is completely otherwise, like the wellspring of another time. One recognizes it. It's very impressive. Like a commonplace, something everyone knows without having spoken of it." —Marguerite Duras
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
SEVENTH CIRCLE You are in a round factory. Outside, it’s difficult. Night, with some trees. A light bulb turns, peaceful. You are on a platform, leaning over. You look. The elevator goes up and down in a vertical corridor. There are many doors and windows, you saw them while arriving, they increase the unease. The factory is big, really defined. Outside, it’s difficult. Night, with some trees. Powerful light, invisible. The ceiling is far. There are precise walls, hallways. The air is breathed, imperceptible. Thought is there. * You are standing, at the bus stop, you wait for the bus. All around there is the sky and telephone poles. The sky advances, immobile. Big wide sky. You see the streaks. At the cafe, music, tranquil and absent. Those were the days, my love, ah yes, those were the days. Interminable sky, already frayed. There is no forgetting, ever. You are run through. When you arrive, a refrigerator in the corner is big and white. Some wires over there. Things are hanging. There are appliances, hollow basins, a counter. The basins are blue and yellow. You sit down, you have a drink. Across, the shelves. They are apparent. You dream, always. The shelves are edged. The substance of the room is porous. A silence. You are sitting. Presence of volume. Curved things. The wall offers, a lot. A calendar is pinned up, for the days. Repairs and stitches, and always this room, run through. Wires. You are there. On the counter, there are objects. The objects are useless, it’s terrible. Volume swelling, colors. Scraps and things, rubber. The room slides endlessly. You are inside. * It’s evening. You have time. The tranquil space moves in. Things fall, everything. There are images on the wall, stuck there, flat. The objects are isolated. Anxiety. All around, the tablecloth and the blanket, and the crocheted bedspread. The curtains too, wooly. Behind the windows, the suburbs broad and spacious. You feel them. You are among your own, and you consider your dear immobility. The room is there, all around. No one can know, no one. You have eaten the meal with your mouth. You are sitting in chairs, there are hands and knees. Something dies, what violence. Across, the face of the other, closed and supple like a piece of body.
