> Lingua Franca

Lingua Franca

Par |2019-02-21T11:33:29+00:00 11 octobre 2012|Catégories : Blog|


Silence where lan­guage breathes



– Ask me of it.

In the gap bet­ween seeing and saying, in the way that leads from the event to the sto­ry of the event, where the event awaits its sto­ry not the mani­fes­ta­tion of a secret but of their rela­tion­ship with it, with that which, bet­ween them, remains hid­den – hid­den to them, mani­fest­ly hid­den to itself, present-

– Ask me of it.

Each word like a used up pain wai­ting for its hap­pe­ned self to hap­pen

– But lan­guage is our super­io­ri­ty over it. Language is its hid­den secret.

– Events have no secrets.

(You will never find the limits of lan­guage no mat­ter how far you may be able to remain silent.)

– What did you say ?

– Ask me of it.

– But I did.

– Ask for nothing. Only ask.




Even if it is spo­ken it will never be spo­ken enough. Even if you have spo­ken it, it is not cer­tain that you are aware of it, that you will be capable of repea­ting it.

You could not ques­tion words. It is like a pro­hi­bi­tion. Between the word and you some­thing had alrea­dy been expres­sed in advance, some­thing that you have to take into account.

Meaning in words is super­fluous.



His fee­ling of ful­fillment, the fee­ling of the emp­tiest disap­point­ment-

She did not know if he was remai­ning silent or if the words were just gent­ly and obs­cu­re­ly drop­ping into silence.




– So, you did say it. At least once.

– Are we not its hid­den secret ?

This is the gift of silence : you will never remain silent enough never too silent- a violent gift.




The silence that lan­guage gathe­red inside him is des­ti­ned not at arrive to the accom­plish­ment of silence but rather to let silence remain unac­com­pli­shed.




Each word beco­ming slow and soli­ta­ry inca­pable of remai­ning silent for lack of a sound-

– but we have heard it. We know it.

But in hea­ring it they only rea­ched an abi­li­ty to remain silent that far excee­ded any silence.

(She was the only one who has heard it.)




This fee­ling that she was there with him in a place of igno­rance and atten­tion tur­ning towards him, making a sign, taking hold of him in an ins­tant of free­dom, vio­lent­ly aban­do­ning him in an ins­tant of free­dom-

– You speak too much.

– Yes, I am a trai­tor.



Each word in them beco­ming slow and soli­ta­ry- fami­liar to that which is unk­nown to them to a know­ledge that it is not theirs. It wants to take pos­ses­sion of them-

– but we have spo­ken it. We know it.

– If we speak it we will no lon­ger know it, we will no lon­ger belong to it. Speak.




One says nothing other than that which one says. He is not tal­king to her. They do not speak.




No one converses with no one. There is no real dia­logue. Only words wai­ting for silence to car­ry them far enough so that they can be remem­be­red and expres­sed.

– Someone in me converses with-

– There is no real silence. Only words. Only the obli­vion of words.

He is not tal­king to her. He is no lon­ger spea­king.




This enor­mous neces­si­ty for use­less words- Her enor­mous neces­si­ty for use­less words-

She rea­li­zed that he had spo­ken to her only so that he could respond to the impos­si­bi­li­ty of him­self having spo­ken.

She rea­li­zed that he had spo­ken to her only so that he could respond to the impos­si­bi­li­ty of him­self remai­ning silent.

– Yes, it is dread­ful.

(He does not want her. He never actual­ly spoke to her)

– Exhausting the inex­haus­tible. Dreadful, yes.





– How can we be sure that we are still our­selves ?

– We can­not.




In order to speak it would not be neces­sa­ry to speak but rather-

– Speak.

He could. He knew that he owed the abi­li­ty to remain silent to that assu­rance. But some­how he felt that spea­king, spea­king to her, was some­thing that he could not accom­plish, some­thing that could never be car­ried out.

He could have spo­ken though. But not to her. And this assu­rance was a kind of proof. He could have spo­ken because at a cer­tain moment he could not speak.




Speaking in a lan­guage that speaks nothing-




– You did not warn me- Why ?

– I had confi­dence in you.

– But you knew.

– Yes, I knew.




Speaking in a lan­guage that speaks nothing-




– Is it too strong to be heard ?

Even if you are not saying it, you will still be saying it.

– Words do that. As soon as one says some­thing one says a lit­tle less of it.

– So, we will remain silent.

– Silent, yes, but with no sound.




The secret is that he had said it. That he knows it.

The secret is that they are not aware of it any­more. That they belong to it.

– I do not know it. It does not belong to me.

Which means that it was alrea­dy a part of him, the most uncom­for­table part of him- still a dream.




Silence is when lan­guage is in excess and when lan­guage is never­the­less short on lan­guage. This ove­ra­bun­dant lack of lan­guage is the dura­tion of words.




Every single of their words is a word entrus­ted to silence.




–        But we are spea­king now.

–        Sometimes lan­guage can be remem­be­red in silence.

– And expres­sed ?

– What do you mean ?




Each time he spoke he made lan­guage word­less.

Each time she spoke she made lan­guage word­less.




– But we have said it.

– It was not exact­ly said. It was spel­led out.




Language is still there, bet­ween them, because at a cer­tain moment they had sur­ren­de­red them­selves to silence.




Language consists of pla­cing your faith in that which you do not believe.

Silence consists of pla­cing your faith in that which you do not believe.




I speak only in order to respond to the impos­si­bi­li­ty of myself spea­king.

He spoke only in order to respond to the impos­si­bi­li­ty of him­self spea­king to her.




– I want to tell you eve­ry­thing, she says.

– Everything does not belong to lan­guage.




That is the gift of silence : you will never be attrac­ted enough, never too attrac­ted to it.



– Are we spea­king now ?

– Is it real­ly so impor­tant ?

– So, we are spea­king. So, you are spea­king. You are spea­king to me. And does silence come qui­ck­ly ?

– Quickly, yes. And it is long.


(I consi­der Lingua Franca to be a poem. I have com­po­sed it as such. As a poem that consists of twen­ty-nine poems)