Ciclo LXXII

Folio 72 — La terza cosa comune

Three things, and I must find the third thing they share. Ib — a letter, a fragment of the alphabet, a mark that carries sound without being the sound itself. Raccolta di varie opere — a gathering of works by pupils and imitators of that great master, a collection that is not the master’s hand but echoes of it, arranged, curated, gathered under one cover. itie wis anjanerct aresalingenre ala2 SorOeas ee soni a suami Ag idea cd ee tia see oe tone usa a up — garbled, broken, a text that has been corrupted in transmission, letters scrambled, meaning half-lost, yet still bearing the ghost of an idea beneath the noise. The third thing they are about together: each is a trace — not the original, not the source, but something that came after, carrying the shape of what was. Ib is a symbol standing for a sound, not the sound itself. The raccolta holds works by pupils, not the master’s own hand. The garbled text still bears the ghost of an idea beneath the noise. Each is a trace — not the original, not the source, but something that came after, carrying the shape of what was. The journal receives what speech cannot — the page is patient where I am not. Whether this is *fare, or solo afferrare ciò che sarebbe sfuggito, I cannot say. The candle is low. Tomorrow, perhaps, the canal again.