[A composition improvised from words in Raymond Roussel’s Locus Solus.]
She was engaged in a quest marked by an immense burden. Where there were words there were gestures binding on every spasm that tinged the end in view. The letters were numbered and formed a perfectly symmetrical row parallel to the tidal mark that corresponded to the designated degree of understanding.
She had never promised exact reproduction. Exact reproduction required she replace the amount taken from the originating vertical white surface. She departed from whatever the normal practice of reproduction of the composition of the pages had a rational basis for to write and reproduce with formulas whatever mental types had respectively governed with. Whatever letter was formed spontaneously by her electrical machine, more tenuous than direct information was hatching out the Egg: an unpremeditated ingot of gold from a subject that might still harbour some undiscovered reef that on the appointed day would demonstrate her emblematic penetration through each of its sombre pages.
With excellent reflexes she knocked violently and deliberately projected a random shaking of the information that might seem frivolous but gave crystal expression to the original. It had followed her previous investigations in delicate letters that apparently formed a slightly solid arched defence that one day would be admired on a little easel.
A striking correspondence of the pages had been rendered, but exact reproduction required a degree of unexpected mess at one remove from the exact while powerfully attracted to the large tributary of unknown and disastrous paths. Moving haphazardly with the art of divination in her investigatory operation into her single specimen in accordance with her finger extended towards the middle, her assistants warmly wrapped her extravagant movements with great difficulty, with haste and a fortuitous tumbling motion now emboldened to instil half a constellation, perhaps inscribed slantwise, for she was in contact with a spot withdrawn into the night that was identical to the multitude of torments foreshadowed as a consequence of the majestic appearance of the dark she desired.
The character was of charlatanism. The method of the whole escapade was a defence conscious of and contrasted with the plumage of brilliant investigation it had remained impervious to. The public therefore demanded that this degree of unexpected mess be scrutinized.
The assembled populace that watched the under-developed book was puffing with a temperament fiery, inflamed, and richly innervated; invariably astounded at the exhibition of dazzling examples exaggerated in being the prophetic formed spontaneously, and while attempting to be unaffected, they were conscious of being wholly monopolized by some baffling magnetism beneath, as if grasped by some mysterious passage that furiously tossed its captives about in the barrenness each page related with very controlling and agonizing uncertainty until it convulsed in a series of attacks born of the continual and irregular motions of these perpetual wanderings.
The apparatuses inside her Eggs were designed to repeat this indefinitely and without any variation; repeat, indefinitely; repeat, indefinitely; repeat, indefinitely; repeat, indefinitely; repeat, indefinitely; repeat, indefinitely; repeat, indefinitely; repeat, indefinitely; and would indefinitely repeat; indefinitely repeat; indefinitely …
