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There are beings who are overwhelmed by the reality of others, their way of speaking, of crossing their legs, of lighting a cigarette. They become mired in the presence of others. One day, or rather one night, they are swept away inside the desire and the will of a single Other. Everything they believed about themselves vanishes.
They dissolve and watch a reflection of themselves act, obey, swept into a course of events unknown. They trail behind the will of the Other, which is always one step ahead. They never catch up. There is no submission, no consent, only the stupefaction of the real. All that remains is the Other, master of the situation, of every gesture and the moment to follow, which only he foresees. My father tried to kill my mother one Sunday in June, in the early afternoon.
I had been to Mass at a quarter to twelve as usual. I must have brought back some cakes from the baker in the new shopping precinct — a cluster of temporary buildings erected after the war while reconstruction was under way.
When I got home, I took off my Sunday clothes and slipped on a dress that washed easily. After the customers had left and the shutters had been pinned down over the store window, we had lunch, probably with the radio on, because at that hour there was a funny programme called Courtroom, in which Yves Deniaud played some wretched subordinate continually charged with the most preposterous offences and condemned to ridiculous sentences by a judge with a quivering voice.
