Monthly Archives: november 2012

-I shot myself in Lahore, but didn’t die. The others separate me from Lahore. I don’t. Lahore is me. You understand too?
-Yes. Don’t shout.
-Yes. You are with me, with Lahore. I know it. You are in me. I’ll take you away inside me. We shall fire on the Shalimar lepers. You can’t avoid it. I didn’t need to dance with you to know you. And you know it.
-I know it.
-There’s no need for us to go on. We have nothing to say to each other. We are the same.
-I believe that.
-Have love affairs with others. We don’t need that. I wanted to know the smell of your hair. That explains why I… After the reception, your friends will stay on. I wish I could stay with you once.
-There’s no chance.
-They’d throw me out
-Yes. You are someone they have to forget.
-Like Lahore.
-What will become of me?
-You’ll be posted far from Calcutta.
-That’s what you want?
-Very well. When will it end?
-With your death, I believe.
-What’s this pain? My pain?

Marguerite Duras, India Song (1975)

Som blomster vender deres bægre mod solen, således stræber også alt som har været, i kraft af en slags gådefuld heliotropisme, mod at vende sig efter den sol, der er under opgang på historiens himmel. (WB, historiefilosofiske teser)