I was unable.
I stayed bent down for a second, I read “Dictation: The White Owl,” then I straightened up,
empty-handed. I am no longer free,
I can no longer do what I will.
Objects should not
because they are not alive. You use
them, put them back in place, you
live among them: they are useful, nothing more. But they touch me, it is unbearable. I am afraid of
being in contact with them as though they were living beasts.
Now I see: I recall better what I felt the other day
at the seashore when I held the pebble. It was a
sort of sweetish sickness. How unpleasant it was! It came from the stone, I’m sure of it, it passed from
the stone to my hand. Yes, that’s it, that’s just it—a sort of nausea in the hands.
photo by Francesca Woodman
She suffers as a miser. She must be miserly with her pleasures, as well. I wonder if sometimesshe doesn’t wish she were free of this monotonous sorrow, of these mutterings which start as soon asshe stops singing, if she doesn’t wish to suffer once and for all, to drown herself in despair. In anycase, it would be impossible for her: she is boundJean Paul Sartre ‘Nausea’