the night moves

Under the low ceiling of my little bedroom is my night, a deep abyss.

Constantly hurled down to a depth of thousands of feet, with a gulf several times that big below me, I hang on by the rough spots with the greatest difficulty, dead tired, mechanically, helplessly, wavering between disgust and perseverance; the ant-climb continues with interminable slowness. The rough spots grow tinier and tinier, I can hardly make them out on the perpendicular wall. Abyss, night, terror, all fuse together, increasingly indissoluble.

Henri Michaux, La nuit remue (1935)


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