Here lies the most hidden moment of the experience. That the work must be the unique clarity ofthat which grows dim and through which everything is extinguished -- that it can exist onlywhere the ultimate affirmation is verified by the ultimate negation -- this requirement we can stillcomprehend, despite its going counter to our need for peace, simplicity, and sleep. Indeed, weunderstand it intimately, as the intimacy of the decision which is ourselves and which gives usbeing only when, at our risk and peril, we reject -- with fire and iron and with silent refusal --being's permanence and protection. Yes, we can understand that the work is thus pure beginning

the first and last moment when being presents itself by way of the jeopardized freedom whichmakes us exclude it imperiously, without, however, again including it in the appearance ofbeings. But this exigency, which makes the work declare being in the unique moment of rupture-- "those very words: it is," the point which the work brilliantly illuminates even while receivingits consuming burst of light -- we must also comprehend and feel that this point renders the workimpossible, because it never permits arrival at the work. It is a region anterior to the beginningwhere nothing is made of being, and in which nothing is accomplished. It is the depth of being'sinertia [désoeuvrement].Thus it seems that the point to which the work leads us is not only the one where the work isachieved in the apotheosis of its disappearance -- where it announces the beginning, declaringbeing in the freedom that excludes it -- but also the point to which the work can never lead us,because this point is always already the one starting from which there never is any work.

But this negation only masks the more essential fact that in language at this pointeverything reverts to affirmation: in this language what denies affirms. For this language speaksas absence. Wordless, it speaks already; when it ceases, it persists. It is not silent, because in thislanguage silence speaks. The defining characteristic of ordinary language is that listeningcomprises part of its very nature. But at this point of literature's space, language is not to beheard. Hence the risk of the poetic function. The poet is he who hears a language which makesnothing heard.50

The central point of the work is the work as origin, the point which cannot be reached, yet theonly one which is worth reaching.54My incapacity to think, to observe, to determine the truth of things, to remember, tospeak, to take part in the life of others, becomes greater each day; I am turning into stone . . . . IfI don't save myself in some work, I am lost"

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