Any living body that succumbs to death instantly becomes the prey of necrophagous insects, parasites, and germs, but happily it is in our power to forestall their assault and the decomposition they cause; and though in fact one must not be too quick to harbor illusions about the efficacy of these measures of preservation, one can indeed thwart the laws of nature for a time. This is how our canned meats and sterilized vegetables remain tasty for four to five years on average; then we learn of the first fatal poisonings, entire families decimated with no one left to cry for anyone, and the dog yowling away. Of course we are deeply affected by such tragedies; father, mother, children: all dead. What will become of the dog? But there is a faint glimmer amidst the horror: we at least have the satisfaction of having had nothing to do with it, only the victims are to blame; they were careless. We always stamp the “to be consumed by” date on the bottom of all our cans; obviously you need to know. Foodstuffs inevitably go bad, even the least bloody among them — two days after it was invented, bread was already stale. The alcohol or chemical preservatives we use in certain instances do not remain potent for all eternity: ascorbic or acetic acid, sulfur dioxide, antibiotics, and antioxidants only slightly delay the destructive work of the microorganisms, just as the red ochre salve used by the Magdalenians to anoint the bodies of their dead temporarily kept the vermin at bay; it’s a proven fact, traces of powder are still detectable today in their burial sites. They knew the properties of red ochre, having tested it on reindeer and aurochs skin; it also preserved man’s remains, or at least so they thought, ignorant as they were of the extent to which true leather’s resistance outclasses that of its pale imitations. But the care they took to lay out the body shows that respect for the dead is not some recent moral development carried out at the undertaker’s behest. Not at all. Even back then the need to reduce corpses to metaphysical dreamers definitely contributed to the awakening of human consciousness… Three little dots taken from the “i”s in “infinity,” for my subject is vast and even could I reproduce myself, there would still be another book to write here that I must forsake; this is not the first book I abandon in this way, from the first few lines, barely begun for lack of time or space, precisely because of the vistas it opens; no matter how I scatter myself, I cannot be everywhere at once. And then, I have begun another job, this one clear-cut, remunerative, in the public interest, which gives me social standing and which I have promised to see through to the end. So back I go. Besides, I did not wander as far afar as it may seem. I kept my eye on the crates: among the types of clay jumbled in the second crate, the red ochre in particular stands out, as red as that ruddy-cheeked blood orange that you always fear will break into a drunkard’s song at the end of a meal before it rolls under the table.
BIRDS CHANGE names whenever they change habitats, this is why they are at home wherever they go. Their flightiness does considerable harm to the notion of native land. Fortunately there are farmyards, nations are saved by their farmyards. However, this would not be enough. Nations are above all mineral, at one with their soil. Rome when it left home was ultimately defeated by Barbarians and returned to Rome with its she-wolf’s tail between its legs, immobilized for good, petrified, a tourist attraction. The geologic samples that we shall now examine more closely provide a rather accurate picture of the Pales valley, a picture that is, however, retrospective or prophetic, because we have only shards, fragments of rock, a vision of chaos or apocalypse, no matter, it’s the same scene. Every human work as it is constructed also foreshadows what will be, but in reverse, its successive ruins, and each year of our life discreetly celebrates the anniversary of our death: time passed through here, it will go back through here. Inexhaustibly rich in silicates, iron oxides, and manganese, the Pales region, birthplace of painting, is also reputed for its low grain yield, where the hens lay so rarely that storks hatch from their eggs. Art and hunger have thus belonged to one another since the beginning, shaped by the same dreams of abundance and sensual delight. I’m inclined to believe that the first painter discovered ochre’s properties as a colorant while sucking on a stone to stave off hunger. All day long he spat stars. This could very well be how the whole adventure began. The ever mysterious origin of stories interests me more than their always predictable endings; this is why I would make a pathetic storyteller — am I not naively lighting the evening bonfire on the thatched roof of my cottage? — a lousy storyteller concerned only with beginnings, origins, genealogies, etymologies, and continually postponing the start of his story instead of moving beyond, to the rest, to the action, because sooner or later, he must — no matter what ruses are employed or even deployed to delay as long as possible this fatal, inevitable, ineluctable, and terrifying outcome at the end of a sentence, on the edge of the void — conclude.
This way, please. At least, I think so. There are so many directions. But it must be this way, yes, I’d swear to it, but not on my life. This way out, then, straight ahead, then left, dark little hallway, left again after the overhang, watch your head, then right, take the steep path that leads to the upper level, another dark passageway, we grope along and yet we move ahead, we’re getting closer — this half-light in fact is not due to some negligence, make no mistake, nor to a lack of means; it is deliberate, maintained, necessary. Continuous lighting would quickly cause the painters’ colors to fade. Light tends to replace everything it touches. This is why the Pales network has a very specific electrical installation similar to the one used in theaters where daylight — too dated, anachronistic — is also kept out. Intermittent projectors, inspection lamps that seize a mammoth or a bison, but for just an instant, fleetingly, nothing like those rabbits frozen in the beam of a headlight like in aspic, here the visitor has no time to feast his eyes on what he sees: the chosen figures do their little trained-animal act and then night reclaims them. Let’s move along. This way. Not too fast, please. Pay close attention or you might trip on the pebbles littering the next section and that even threaten to obstruct it. But I’m here with you, out in front, I know my job, we’ll make it through.