“Every thought is a tremor. We think against ourselves, we think against thought itself, we think so as not to sink into pathos. There is more truth in a fall than in all philosophies. Logic is nothing but a tamed vertigo.”
Emil Cioran, The Fall into Time (1964), Gallimard, p. 79
Long after they had climbed down from the tree where they had encountered the tiny donkeys, and long after those creatures had posed the riddle that slowly and relentlessly continued to make its way through their minds, and after they had followed—willingly or otherwise—its gigantic roots, the life of Don Carrot of the Plancha... or, according to other sources, of La Mancha, together with that of Warmblood of the Belly, had taken a singular turn. Nothing they had longed for had yet come to pass, nor did anything suggest that they might ever escape the enigma that held them captive.
Like his master, perched upon exceedingly fragile foundations, Warmblood acted with all the tact that such circumstances allowed. Yet, as he repeated far too often:
"When matters stand thus... no one is bound to accomplish the impossible!"
It was thus that Don Carrot and the unfaithful Warmblood reached the outskirts of the Archipelago.
Between them, nothing seemed to have changed. Don Carrot, however, had slipped a few drops of wine into his water, which, at first glance, made him appear rather more amiable.
— Remind me in detail, Warmblood... of what you were saying about that riddle which came into being within our very brow... in that withdrawn instant at the heart of that tree... together with... perhaps... our future steed...
— Master, I see with no displeasure that a certain idea is making its way... Far be it from me to drive yet another nail...
— Then continue! Tremble, and let us see whether, as you claim, the idea can indeed find its path...
— Ideas, Sire, are much like thoughts: they come and go entirely as they please. If they wish to go that way... they go. If they wish to come this way... they come. Nothing resists them. They carve invisible pathways through everything...
— Then let them come here! But tell me... what of our own path? Speak, since such is my command. I wish to be included in it... or at the very least guided by it.
— As people say—if I may dare repeat it... and surely Your Grace already knows it... the path is not the path... and despite our long journey, nothing has yet been resolved...
— Then resolve it... let us resolve it! Summon the words back to us!
— There! From where else, if not from him, could such strange prose have come to me?
— Without even restating the riddle, the enigmatic returns once again... But who is this him? Is it perhaps yet another trap in which my own mind is about to cast its line?
— I tell you... almost without circumlocution... it may well concern... your future steed...
— What? Those ridiculous little donkeys of no distinction?
— Ridiculous they are not, Sire. Pray settle this dispute.
— Above all, do not tell me they were speaking, for heaven's sake!
— I say nothing of the sort... but... look a little more closely...
— But? What is this but? Finish your sentence!
— But... though he spoke no word to me—without speech, therefore, without emphasis—I suddenly found myself thinking...
— Thinking... of what?
— Of a dark riddle that had somehow escaped from him.
— Enough detours! Repeat here that bitter saying, so that we may finally be done with it!
— It presented itself in these very words:
"Who am I if, waking endlessly, day after day, I am pursued by the echo of words heard in my sleep:
'I am an infiltrator inside the schizophrenic double agent that I am. Who am I if I am the one who speaks these words, and who am I if I am only the one who hears them?'
It was then that I understood how, within only a few words, a labyrinth may come into being."
— And what shall our answer be to this dark and silent charivari?
— None, my Lord, none. Confusion overwhelms me. I confess it.
— What are we to do? You know well that whenever inactivity weighs upon me... the inner boiling begins to stir... and threatens... Do you feel the island trembling?
— My Lord, keep calm—you make me tremble as well. There is no need to eruct... forgive me... to erupt... no... eruption... pardon the confusion... I meant to say explode. I firmly believe, just as the donkey has led me to believe, that you must meet him.
— Must I, in the midst of all this confusion—and considering his diminutive size—stoop down and humble myself?
— That question belongs to you, noble Master... and the answer remains fluid...
— Why, in heaven's name, should I submit myself to such games?
— It may well be destiny... your destiny... and no one may ignore it. The time has come to implore a key!
— And on top of everything else... I shall have to implore...!
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