“Memory that I am, yet that I also wait for, toward which I go down toward you, far from you, space of that memory, of which there is no memory, which holds me back only where I have long since ceased to be… as though you, who perhaps do not exist, in the calm persistence of what disappears, were continuing to turn me into a memory and search for what could recall me to you, great memory in which we are both held fast, face to face, wrapped in the lament I hear:”
Maurice Blanchot; The Last Man (Translated by Lydia Davis, 1987, Originally published as Le Dernier Homme, Gallimard, Coll. Blanche, 1957 p70)
