His voice seems fascinated with itself. His voice: lost in itself, wandering in its own corridors. He spoke, but did it matter what he said? The wanderer: his voice lived its own life, and kept him only as its husk. Listen to him and you know your own voice wanders, that it speaks not of what you would want it to say, but only itself, perpetually returning. Only the surprise that it is, the coming to itself of this surprise.
That there is speaking; that there is a voice that bears speech. Bears it, and returns in it, as speech speaks of the communicativity that is its possibility. To have speech, to be spoken: what it says does not matter; that he says it is everything. That it is said; that there is saying: his voice, which still and calm, also trembles. His speech, calm and sure, is out over 70,000 fathoms.
And when you speak to him? When your voice meets his? Speech speaks to itself; the voice loses itself in the space that is opened between you. A between, now, that separates you from yourself, and by way of the voice. Separation – as though a plain had opened at your heart. As though the winds that blow across the ice let speak that opening.
It speaks, no one speaks – you are divided by what holds you together. Itself: the word has come apart. Whose self? What returns? Division: who hears you speaking? Who follows speech as it is lost in its corridors?
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