Fiction. THE ENEMY is made of 144 sections. Each section seems to have a life of its own. The characters (the master, the servant, the curator, the child victim, the secretary) appear through all of them but at different periods of time, in different guises and with differing relationships to one another. The master is writing his memoirs. A secretary helps him to organize them then departs. Another replaces him who must deal with: Fragments of totally unrelated reports, resolutely contradictory statements. The master questions the secretary. "Well then, still in the shit? .you've attached too much importance to some statements that were no more valid than others." The master struggles with an adversary who may be his double. He searches for a presence.
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But the master is still there. And the house in the same landscape. Same light, same ambiguous ambiance. Same indistinct murmurs.
An inventory to be made. Of the little that remains. Objects, places, voices. Don't name its author. Who mandated him? He was here yesterday, he's here this morning, will be here tomorrow. The time to verbalize. Is that the word? He listens and writes. He rereads. He rewrites.
Of the little that remains.