ENGLISH
voluntarily omits this fifth out of twenty-six symbols, that many say is vital to writing. What is this, if not audacity?
The Void translated by Jules Buffet/Ariane Dudych
Anton Voyl Which, at first, looks as a book writ long ago, about an individual who naps his fill. Anton Voyl can’t drop off, and puts his light on. His Jaz clock shows half past midnight. With a big sigh, Anton sits up on his bunk, propping his body on his pillow; taking a book, unfurling it, thumbs through it, grasping but a blurry imbroglio out of it, always stumbling upon a word of which all signification is unknown to him. Abandoning his book on his bunk, Anton walks to his sink, damps a washcloth and rubs it on his brow, on his throat. His blood is throbbing too strongly, it is too hot for him. Anton lifts his fanlight, gazing into a warm night. An indistinct sound climbs up from his district. A carillon tolls – no tocsin or gong or bourdon bongs as profoundly as its vast, throbbing sound – tolls, and again, and again. From Canal Saint-Martin, a pitiful lapping signals a narrowboat on its way.
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