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The
Infernal Machine 2003 |
Useless to close your eyes, to turn away. Voice and vision are not my method. No blind man is more nimble, no gladiator's net more quick, subtler than silent lightning, straighter than a coachman's stance, heavier than a cow, more sagacious than a schoolboy sulking over algebra, more rigged and anchored than a ship, more voracious than insects, more bloodthirsty than birds, more nocturnal than the inside of an egg, more ingenious than a Chinese torturer, more deceitful than the heart, more casual than hands that cheat, more fatal than the stars, more attentive than a snake poised to strike its prey; I secrete my thread, I retract, I loosen, I unwind, I uncoil, I roll up. If I want knots, they appear. A thought, and they tighten or slacken away; so thin it cannot be grasped, so supple you'd think you were a victim of poison, so rigid it could accidentally amputate your arm, so taut a bow would raise a celestial lament, all the way from me to you; fluted like the sea, the pillar, the rose; as muscular as the octopus, as contrived as the decor of a dream, and above all, invisible, invisible and solemn as the blood that flows through the veins of statues; a thread that can bind you with a volubility as wild as the arabesques of honey dropping into honey. Jean
Cocteau
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