Lost: A long list of abysses, picked up in a timeless library.

My list of the abyss grew and grew, until I eventually grew tired of it in the realization that the abyss was everywhere at the edge of nowhere. I decided to leave it to memory to trigger and filter what 
I would remember of my literary abysses, like Old MacDonald on his farm, with a Baudelaire here and a Nietzsche there, here an Ungaretti, there a Saint Teresa, everywhere a Kafka    …    I even lost the list not deliberately, and yet certain entries burned even brighter in my mind, like Edmond Jabès writing through Rosmarie Waldrop’s translation: “You will follow the book, whose every page is an abyss where the wing shines with the name.” Such lines breathe the air and light.

via Translating the Abyss by Jeffrey Yang.

 

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