J. M. Le Clézio - Terra Amata

‘SOBIESIBOM OOLES-PONK’

Kwk-abèd: demboo, ymena, vanark xaté-demboo. Waletudo sani-a me oki-ho antè-orok. Yostlö sabur delespooka nüge m’zen irü, mana xamena yan’derch. Hagenor kaazpaalidumbok anek chlawo zani de-m(ü)-fatur krysbonara deach’de sada; ob prjessa, ob asaour honnibulskanovok-nok, awù didwoomyi s’palaturao-ak, atte te-chenbong füllola. Benidzjem den deach’doolo trix stumbok pudurum. Banje Elvaarak sakokok:

‘Velledaj acharach nooz?’

‘Ho?’

‘Ho-kuk.’

‘Alle intok cuxta narab bela kokteno-ku.’

‘Vazilikur nuwooj brez—’

‘Tonk.’

‘Har’m’doo. Niwoo. Deluz xupic hamak.’

‘Hertinabal klaspak gudur ching-fo ho. Kaz debribisziniyi heng ette, sallabang-drabor!’

‘Kaz. Strepomutzenizic ho bok anuk.’

‘Ende de ach’de.’

‘Ma-wo to-pü wü suntun kachac.’

‘Zel.’

‘Zello bucastor arta-numa-pawac.’

‘Yootense garl enzemound(ü).’

‘Kaz.’

‘Abore mana peri trizocoklok ho.’

‘Wünü-si.’

‘Karaminx zel ach’de m phoo goulaz.’

‘Galla tapassarius doko hok. Ama ana atti steze tchekkaz-kaok, kaz mok, honti!’

‘Honti hovar!’

‘Tonkao.’

Jenüs deli-h-anta patarak vahand-hang, trexidü abolomina ahaa-ra-s, wii ato-m(ü) kazzakadakok, mong framaha puchun disthakalla unà umok. Elevero-bezü, Mookach sellis, Oïnoï-atü, renobello iveillaha akastrak ch’demo n, ontoselomisku nulowadek, hech’arun, fam etti salla apak, garewodzje xamun pelladan rong-betok gonik. Wïïlla hon, enni, hottaü rus.

Salussi-nom, galla parang matatitanek àrazu-ho tong-ak tang-xaximenok Dogü.

Are you happy?

Why are you reading this book?

What do you think is the worst thing that could happen?

Where would you like to live?

Have you read the dictionary?

Do you ever cry?

Do you like looking at yourself in the mirror?

Are you sentimental?

Which brand of cigarettes do you like best?

Do you know your mother’s date of birth?

Who would you like to be if you weren’t yourself?

What is your ideal of earthly happiness?

Who is your favourite poet? Your favourite painter?

Your favourite composer?

What animal would you have liked to be?

What do you like best in a woman?

What do you like best in a man?

Are you a racialist?

Would you have liked to be a tree?

Do you write with a ball-point pen?

Do you like getting letters?

Do you wear dark glasses?

What do you like on television?

Do you think what you say?

Do you like drink?

Do you take drugs?

Which Christian names do you like best for men?

For women?

What’s your favourite surname?

How tall are you?

How much do you weigh?

What’s your pulse-rate?

Do you consider yourself normal?

Which are your favourite illnesses?

Are you obsessed with sex?

Are you a morning person or a night person?

What do you like about night?

About day?

Why aren’t you me?

What do you dream about?

Do you like money?

Are you capable of killing someone?

Are you generous?

Would you like to go to the moon?

What is just?

Would you have liked to have slaves?

Why do people forget?

Why doesn’t the sun explode?

Why is there a little hole in the top of a fountain-pen?

Why are match-heads red?

What is ugliness?

What will it be like a million years from now?

Are you afraid of the dark?

Do you feel yourself to be alive?

How can there be such a thing as infinity?

Where is God?

How can one think of nothing?

Do you know who you are?

Do you know that there are people dying of hunger?

What would you do if you were king?

What is truth?

What is passion?

What is freedom?

Would you hate someone if they damaged your car?

Have you got a feeling for nature?

What do you consider the greatest film ever?

The greatest novel?

The most beautiful painting?

The most beautiful sonata?

The most beautiful woman?

Do you believe in the Loch Ness monster?

Why is thought a closed system?

What is genius? What is talent?

What is light?

Is there a human community?

What is your favourite word?

Do you read the advertisements in magazines?

How long can you hold your breath?

Did you invent your signature straight off?

Why am I asking these questions?

Do you know what is the capital of Honduras?

Is everything beautiful?

Can you give an example of something unimaginable?

Do you feel useful?

What do you thing is the most important thing in the last 5000 years?

Are you superstitious?

Do you believe in art?

Are you a sadist?

Do you think the world only exists in the human mind?

Can you conceive of the absolute?

Do you ever have insomnia?

Anxiety?

Do you like children?

What’s your favourite object?

Are you moved by the story of Jesus Christ?

Are you free?

Do you know that you’re going to die?

Why will you grow old?

Why is there an end?

Why do things wear out?

Why do people die?

Why are they forgotten?

What is the most important thing you’ve ever done so far?

What’s your present state of mind?

Have you got a soul?

How would you like to die?

Have you read Ecclesiastes?

Have you read Sri Aurobindo?

Have you read Mao, Tse-tung?

Have you read Proust?

Does evil exist?

Do you think there won’t be any more wars?

Are you afraid of the atomic bomb?

What must one do to be happy?

To see things clearly?

Is it silly to ask questions?

Is it impossible to live without suffering?

Do you believe in love?

Does talking do any good?

How will it all end?

One day Chancelade went through a region that resembled hell. He was sitting in a blue car driven by his wife. The windows were open because it was very hot, and there was some kind of queer electric guitar music on the radio. Every so often a man’s voice would interrupt the music to announce the next disc, ‘Manuella’, ‘Tallahassee Baby Blues’, ‘Wow’, ‘I want to Die Tonight’, or something like that, but the music was always the same. The guitar ground out its metallic sounds, sometimes voluble and swooping up and down with nervous rapidity, sometimes sharp and choleric with roughly struck chords intermingled with long sweet discordant notes that burst forth then united in strident whirrs. The rhythm was echoed heavily in the background, and you could also hear the ‘dum dum dum te-dum dum’ of the double-bass. It was a strange kind of music, sad and sweet at the same time, which reverberated round inside the car like some organic sound; yes, it was just as if there was a heart inside this carapace of metal and plastic, a heart and mechanical lungs, and as if the whole world were inhabited by steel robots.

The blue car drove on by itself along the road, and Chancelade looked at the sea and listened to the strange and powerful music of the electric guitar. He smoked another cigarette without saying anything, the prisoner of the metal machine bowling along, and of the music, and of the fierce reflections of the sun on the sea and the fronts of the houses.

At one point Mina turned to him and said:

‘What’s the matter?’

At another:

‘What a scorcher, eh?’

‘Don’t you feel hot too?’

‘The traffic! We shall never get to town before two.’