The struggle to understand only so that understanding can shatter on its own futility - the answers are all futile. Who could there be to accept an answer? Only the questions hint at what is there, those stubborn and mute questions of time and sense that a child asks, the first and last fruits of its own mind. It is calmly clear that he does not belong, that he is a guest and owes the host no more than this awareness, this inquiry, which is the softest and most gratifying requital. The question is never answered, stays open for his whole life, can only be resumed, faintly, bent into strange shapes, in everything that delights him or halts him in wonder, that twilight face, the raised hand holding a glass of wine, the cool blue crystalline air.