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.And her body scarcely responded, quietly echoing: Joana.The days sped by and she wished to confront herself more closely.She now summoned herself in a loud voice, and it was not enough that she should be breathing.Happiness was effacing her, effacing her.She now wanted to know herself again, even with sorrow.But she became increasingly submerged.Tomorrow she put it off, tomorrow I shall confront myself.But the new day skimmed over her surface, light as a summer evening, barely unsettling her nerves.The only thing she had not got used to was sleeping.Each night, sleep became an adventure, to fall from the effortless clarity in which she lived into mystery itself, sombre and fresh, to cross darkness.To die and to be reborn.So I shall never have any mandate, she thought to herself after she had been married for several months.I slip from one truth to another, always forgetting the first one, always dissatisfied.Her life consisted of tiny, complete lives, of perfect circles, that became isolated from each other.Except that at the end of each of them, instead of dying and beginning life on another plane, inorganic or organically deficient, Joana recommenced on the human plane itself.Only the fundamental notes were different.Or was it only the supplementary ones that were different while the basic ones were eternally the same?It was ever futile to have been happy or unhappy.And even to have loved.No happiness or unhappiness had been so intense that it could have transformed the elements of her matter, giving her a unique path — as one's true path ought to be.I perpetually go on inaugurating myself, opening and closing circles of life, throwing them aside, withered, impregnated with the past.Why are they so independent, why don't they merge into one solid mass and provide me with ballast? The fact is that they were far too integral.Moments so intense, red, condensed within themselves that they needed neither past nor future in order to exist.They brought an awareness that did not serve as experience, a direct awareness, closer to feeling than perception.The truth then revealed was so true that it couldn't endure save in its recipient, in the very fact which had provoked it.So true, so fatal, that it only existed in function of its origin.Once the moment of life is over the corresponding truth is also exhausted.I cannot mould it, make it inspire other such moments.Consequently nothing compromises me.Meanwhile, the justification of her short-lived glory perhaps had no value other than that of affording her a certain pleasure in reasoning things out, such as: if a stone falls, that stone exists, that stone fell from somewhere, that stone.She was often so mistaken.Part TwoThe MarriageJoana suddenly remembered, without any forewarning, herself standing at the top of the stairs.She did not know if she had once been looking down from the top of a staircase, crammed with lots of people, dressed in satin, with large fans.Most likely she had never actually experienced this.The fans, for example, had no material consistency in her memory.If she tried to think of them, she didn't really see fans, but shiny blotches swimming back and forth amidst words in French, whispered carefully through pursed lips, pouting like this as if a kiss were being blown from afar.The fan began as a fan and ended with words in French.Ridiculous.So it was a lie.Yet despite everything, the impression persisted as if the most important thing lay beyond the staircase and the fans.She stopped moving for a moment and only her eyes blinked rapidly, in pursuit of some sensation.Ah, yes.She descended the marble staircase, feeling in the soles of her feet that cold fear of slipping, her hands hot and perspiring, the ribbon tightening round her waist, pulling her up like a hoist.Then the smell of new clothes, the bright inquisitive glance of a man eyeing her up and down and leaving her, as if a button had been pressed in the dark, lighting up her body.She was pervaded by long, integral muscles.Any thought descended through those smooth tendons only to tremble there in her ankles whose flesh was as tender as that of young fowl
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