A Breath of Life Read Online Free PDF Page B

believe. I believe in magic, then. I know how to create within me an atmosphere of the miraculous. I concentrate without any object in mind — and I feel myself taken by a light. It’s a gratuitous miracle, without form and without meaning — like the air that I inhale deeply until I get dizzy for a few seconds. A miracle is the crux of living. When I think, I ruin everything. That’s why I avoid thinking: all I really do is go on going on. And without questions about why or whither. If I think, a thing doesn’t turn up, I don’t happen. A thing that certainly is free to go as long as it’s not imprisoned by thought.
    ANGELA: I take deep pleasure in prayer — and making intimate and intense contact with the mysterious life of God. There is nothing in the world that can substitute the joy of prayer.
    Today I swept the terrace where I keep my plants. How good it is to handle the things of this world: the dry leaves, the pollen of things (dust is the daughter of things). My daily life is very adorned.
    I’m being profoundly happy.
    AUTHOR: Speak, Angela, speak even without making sense, speak so that I won’t completely die.
    ANGELA: I’m in agony: I want the colorful, confused and mysterious mixture of nature. All the plants and algae, bacteria, invertebrates, fish, amphibians, reptiles, birds, mammals concluding man with his secrets.
    AUTHOR: I’m going on holiday from myself and letting Angela do the talking. If one day I should read these things I’m writing, I want to find in the black pit of night thousands of mute fireworks but accompanied by the splinters of thousands of singing crystals. That is the dark night I want to find one day outside me and within. Angela has just made me suddenly feel something within and I felt happy. Extremely happy, I don’t know why. Do I accept it? No, for some secret reason I feel a great burden of uneasiness and anxiety when I reach the snowy peak of a happiness-light. The too-purified air hurts my body.
    Angela has wings.
    ANGELA: I really like things I don’t understand: when I read a thing I don’t understand I feel a sweet and abysmal vertigo.
    AUTHOR: When I was a person, and not yet this rigorous being filled with words, I was more misunderstood by me. But I accepted myself as a whole. But the word slowly kept demystifying me and forcing me not to lie. I can still sometimes lie to others. But as for me my innocence ended and I am dealing more with an obscure reality that I nearly, nearly grasp. It’s a secret truth, sealed, and I sometimes get lost in its fleeting aspect. I am only worthwhile as a discovery.
    ANGELA: I’m an actress to myself. I pretend that I am a particular person but in reality I am nothing.
    AUTHOR: I thought that a seven-pointed polyhedron could be divided into seven equal parts within a circle. But I don’t fit. I am outside. Is it my fault if I don’t have access to myself?
    ANGELA: I don’t fall into the foolishness of being sincere.
    AUTHOR: Anyway, Angela, what is it that you do?
    ANGELA: I take care of life.
    The great night of the world when there was no life.
    AUTHOR: Angela represents the only person she is: there only exists one Angela. Not a single act of mine is I. Angela shall be the act that represents me.
    I lost sight of my destiny. My asking is never exhausted. I ask. What do I ask for? This: the possibility of eternally asking. I have no mission: I live because I was born. And I shall die without death symbolizing me. Outside of me I am Angela. Inside of me I am anonymous. Living demands such audacity. I feel as lost as if sleeping in the desert of the Treasury Department.
    — Angela, now I am speaking directly to you and ask you for the love of God to cry already. Do, please, give your consent and cry. Because, as for me, I can’t stand waiting any longer. Scream out in pain! A red scream! And the tears burst the flood-gates and wash a tired face. Wash as if they were morning dew.
    ANGELA: Am I pure?
    AUTHOR: Purity