“To explain this, Bergson takes the example of Zeno’s paradox, ‘Achilles and the Tortoise,’ which concludes that Achilles will never catch up with the tortoise; we shall see why. Let us say immediately that the reproach Bergson addresses to Zeno is that he confuses the indivisible movement of Achilles’ race with the stations that the race appears to occupy in space (the sum of points of which we spoke earlier). Let us briefly summarize and analyze this paradox: a race is organized between Achilles and a tortoise, but in order to give the tortoise every chance, it is granted a certain head start over Achilles. Yet, according to Zeno, Achilles will never catch up with it because, at the moment Achilles reaches the point where the tortoise had been, the tortoise will already have reached another point, and so on indefinitely. This argument aims to show that every reflection on movement and on time in general fails to grasp their true nature and to coincide with experience.
In order to resolve this paradox, Bergson undertakes to reconsider entirely the way movement had been thought until then, since movement escapes, by its very nature, rational, scientific, and technical intelligence. Let us therefore analyze this paradox. In its effort to apprehend movement, intelligence is led to decompose it into ‘geometrical points,’ into successive and juxtaposed positions linked together by intervals themselves decomposable into geometrical points, and this ad infinitum. One is then dealing with a series of positions to which movement would merely be added afterward. But then, Bergson asks, ‘how could the moving coincide with the immobile?’ Rational intelligence is characterized by a spatializing activity; it indeed confuses movement with the space traversed, that is to say, the spatial with the temporal. Movement cannot be divided into a certain number, even an infinite number, of geometrical and motionless points. This amounts to thinking time on the model of space; yet these two orders are radically heterogeneous: they have neither the same structure, nor the same nature, nor the same function. Space is by nature divisible to infinity into as many juxtaposed points as one wishes to decompose, whereas time possesses a nature that must still be clarified, but which already presents itself endowed with a thickness, with a simultaneity irreducible to every form of division. Movement is not a line upon which the positions of the runner would align and juxtapose themselves. This error therefore consists in confusing the journey, which is movement, with the trajectory, which is space, since one seeks to decompose movement in the same way one can decompose space. Yet movement is, for Bergson and by definition, that which does not divide.”
In order to resolve this paradox, Bergson undertakes to reconsider entirely the way movement had been thought until then, since movement escapes, by its very nature, rational, scientific, and technical intelligence. Let us therefore analyze this paradox. In its effort to apprehend movement, intelligence is led to decompose it into ‘geometrical points,’ into successive and juxtaposed positions linked together by intervals themselves decomposable into geometrical points, and this ad infinitum. One is then dealing with a series of positions to which movement would merely be added afterward. But then, Bergson asks, ‘how could the moving coincide with the immobile?’ Rational intelligence is characterized by a spatializing activity; it indeed confuses movement with the space traversed, that is to say, the spatial with the temporal. Movement cannot be divided into a certain number, even an infinite number, of geometrical and motionless points. This amounts to thinking time on the model of space; yet these two orders are radically heterogeneous: they have neither the same structure, nor the same nature, nor the same function. Space is by nature divisible to infinity into as many juxtaposed points as one wishes to decompose, whereas time possesses a nature that must still be clarified, but which already presents itself endowed with a thickness, with a simultaneity irreducible to every form of division. Movement is not a line upon which the positions of the runner would align and juxtapose themselves. This error therefore consists in confusing the journey, which is movement, with the trajectory, which is space, since one seeks to decompose movement in the same way one can decompose space. Yet movement is, for Bergson and by definition, that which does not divide.”
— Pinocchio the Other bears little resemblance to the triumphant puppet of tales where falsehood eventually becomes morality.
— Something in him remains suspended in an intermediate state, as though the transformation had begun without ever consenting to completion.
— He still carries the mark of wood, yet this wood seems to have long remained in salt water, beneath rain, inside holds, abandoned workshops, or the damp backstage of a circus one cannot tell whether it is being erected or dismantled.
— His body, much like the circus itself, sometimes gives the impression of having been assembled several times.
— One joint differs slightly from the other.
— One shoulder seems to belong to an ancient gesture.
— One hand appears more worn than the rest of the body, as though it had continued searching for something long after movement itself had ceased.
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Lucian’s Notebook
His face possesses a strange, weary gentleness. Nothing expressive in the ordinary sense. What troubles one comes precisely from this restraint. Whatever the situation, his eyes, often half-closed, seem to listen more than they look. In him, seeing and hearing become almost the same operation. One might think he sleeps standing up, yet this half-sleep corresponds rather to a particular way of receiving the world, as though every appearance first had to pass through a silent depth before reaching the surface of sight.
His nose, which many expect to see lengthen spectacularly, obeys a different law. It rarely grows when he speaks. It grows above all when he hears words he cannot inwardly sustain. Not merely lies transform it, but uninhabitable sentences. Empty speech. Certainties recited by rote. Truths administered without risk. His whole body then becomes a kind of instrument sensitive to the deformations of language. As though the wood of which he is made had preserved the memory of the tensions, fibers, and invisible pressures that once traversed the living tree before it was cut down.
There exists in him a secret proximity to fragments, or to what remains after separation. Where others seek unity, he perceives seams… or scars. He understands beings through their fissures more than through their stable appearances. Perhaps because he knows himself to be composed. Not manufactured once and for all, but continuously recomposed. His body sometimes gives the impression that one part might detach without the whole ceasing nevertheless to live. His head above all seems to possess a troubling autonomy. In certain drawings, it floats between two waters, eyes half-open, as though separation itself had made another form of listening possible.
This image touches something ancient. The scattered limbs of Osiris. Relics. Broken statues whose mere fragment still suffices to evoke an entire presence. Pinocchio the Other belongs to this strange logic in which the part continues to bear the memory of the whole. In him, the body is never entirely closed. It remains traversed by lines of repair, montage, and reassembly. Every scar resembles less a wound than a place of passage.
From the circus he has retained a particular way of inhabiting space. He walks like someone who still knows the existence of the circular ring. Even motionless, he seems slightly carried along by an ancient rotation. Yet something in him now refuses to keep turning in circles. Perhaps this is where his kinship with Don Carotte begins. Both bear the trace of a movement seeking an exit beyond repetition.
When he encounters the Moon Child, a silent recognition seems to take place. Not because they resemble one another outwardly, but because each lives within a displaced relation to the visible world. The Moon Child perceives intensities others cross without sensing. Pinocchio the Other, for his part, perceives the invisible tensions traversing speech, gestures, and narratives. One listens almost to the diffuse background of the world. The other hears the creaking of language before it even becomes perceptible to others.
There is also in him an anxiety linked to being narrated. As though every story risked reducing him to an already familiar role. He endures poorly stories too tightly closed upon their own meaning. Every time one attempts to fix him within a stable identity, something becomes disjointed within him. A hand hangs differently. The gaze withdraws. The body seems to lose its visible coherence. Conversely, whenever speech leaves open the possibility of transformation, his movements recover an almost human fluidity — or perhaps more than human, since they still preserve the memory of wood, rope, suspension, and silence.
He is sometimes mistaken for a melancholic figure. That would be an error. His gravity comes less from sadness than from a kind of material lucidity. He knows that beings are made of precarious assemblages. That names hold together through invisible threads. That every identity remains a seam. Yet far from seeking to conceal this condition, he seems to inhabit it with singular patience, like a restorer of ancient fragments who understands that the fissure has now become part of the work itself.
Thus Pinocchio the Other gradually becomes something other than a character. He resembles instead a sensitive surface upon which the secret tensions of the book itself appear. The revisions. The displacements of voice. The fragments from different eras. The notebook fragments. The unsigned drawings. The narratives that shift their center as one reads them. He may be the one who best understands that the entire story does not seek to produce a perfect form, but rather a form capable of continuing to transform itself without destroying itself.
— Something in him remains suspended in an intermediate state, as though the transformation had begun without ever consenting to completion.
— He still carries the mark of wood, yet this wood seems to have long remained in salt water, beneath rain, inside holds, abandoned workshops, or the damp backstage of a circus one cannot tell whether it is being erected or dismantled.
— His body, much like the circus itself, sometimes gives the impression of having been assembled several times.
— One joint differs slightly from the other.
— One shoulder seems to belong to an ancient gesture.
— One hand appears more worn than the rest of the body, as though it had continued searching for something long after movement itself had ceased.
Lucian’s Notebook
His face possesses a strange, weary gentleness. Nothing expressive in the ordinary sense. What troubles one comes precisely from this restraint. Whatever the situation, his eyes, often half-closed, seem to listen more than they look. In him, seeing and hearing become almost the same operation. One might think he sleeps standing up, yet this half-sleep corresponds rather to a particular way of receiving the world, as though every appearance first had to pass through a silent depth before reaching the surface of sight.
His nose, which many expect to see lengthen spectacularly, obeys a different law. It rarely grows when he speaks. It grows above all when he hears words he cannot inwardly sustain. Not merely lies transform it, but uninhabitable sentences. Empty speech. Certainties recited by rote. Truths administered without risk. His whole body then becomes a kind of instrument sensitive to the deformations of language. As though the wood of which he is made had preserved the memory of the tensions, fibers, and invisible pressures that once traversed the living tree before it was cut down.
There exists in him a secret proximity to fragments, or to what remains after separation. Where others seek unity, he perceives seams… or scars. He understands beings through their fissures more than through their stable appearances. Perhaps because he knows himself to be composed. Not manufactured once and for all, but continuously recomposed. His body sometimes gives the impression that one part might detach without the whole ceasing nevertheless to live. His head above all seems to possess a troubling autonomy. In certain drawings, it floats between two waters, eyes half-open, as though separation itself had made another form of listening possible.
This image touches something ancient. The scattered limbs of Osiris. Relics. Broken statues whose mere fragment still suffices to evoke an entire presence. Pinocchio the Other belongs to this strange logic in which the part continues to bear the memory of the whole. In him, the body is never entirely closed. It remains traversed by lines of repair, montage, and reassembly. Every scar resembles less a wound than a place of passage.
From the circus he has retained a particular way of inhabiting space. He walks like someone who still knows the existence of the circular ring. Even motionless, he seems slightly carried along by an ancient rotation. Yet something in him now refuses to keep turning in circles. Perhaps this is where his kinship with Don Carotte begins. Both bear the trace of a movement seeking an exit beyond repetition.
When he encounters the Moon Child, a silent recognition seems to take place. Not because they resemble one another outwardly, but because each lives within a displaced relation to the visible world. The Moon Child perceives intensities others cross without sensing. Pinocchio the Other, for his part, perceives the invisible tensions traversing speech, gestures, and narratives. One listens almost to the diffuse background of the world. The other hears the creaking of language before it even becomes perceptible to others.
There is also in him an anxiety linked to being narrated. As though every story risked reducing him to an already familiar role. He endures poorly stories too tightly closed upon their own meaning. Every time one attempts to fix him within a stable identity, something becomes disjointed within him. A hand hangs differently. The gaze withdraws. The body seems to lose its visible coherence. Conversely, whenever speech leaves open the possibility of transformation, his movements recover an almost human fluidity — or perhaps more than human, since they still preserve the memory of wood, rope, suspension, and silence.
He is sometimes mistaken for a melancholic figure. That would be an error. His gravity comes less from sadness than from a kind of material lucidity. He knows that beings are made of precarious assemblages. That names hold together through invisible threads. That every identity remains a seam. Yet far from seeking to conceal this condition, he seems to inhabit it with singular patience, like a restorer of ancient fragments who understands that the fissure has now become part of the work itself.
Thus Pinocchio the Other gradually becomes something other than a character. He resembles instead a sensitive surface upon which the secret tensions of the book itself appear. The revisions. The displacements of voice. The fragments from different eras. The notebook fragments. The unsigned drawings. The narratives that shift their center as one reads them. He may be the one who best understands that the entire story does not seek to produce a perfect form, but rather a form capable of continuing to transform itself without destroying itself.
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