1 Today words no longer arise out of silence, through a creative act of the spirit which gives meaning to language and to the silence, but from other words, from the noise of other words. Neither do they return to the silence but into the noise of other words, to become immersed therein. Language has lost its spiritual quality; all that remains is its purely acoustic quality. This is the transformation of the spirit into the material, the transformation of the word that is spirit into the material of noise. The noise of words is the loud emptiness that covers the soundless emptiness. The real word, on the other hand, is the loud fullness over the still surface of silence. There is a difference between ordinary noise and the noise of words. Noise is the enemy of silence; it is opposed to silence. The noise of words is not merely opposed to silence: it makes us even forget that there was ever any such thing as silence at all. It is not even an acoustical phenomenon: the acoustic element, the continual buzzing of verbal noise, is merely a sign that all space and all time have been filled by it. Ordinary noise, on the other hand, is limited, closely related to a definite object, a notification of that object. The noise of a festive gathering or of peasant music is edged around with a silence which gives intensity and prominence to the noise. The silence is as it were station- ed on the frontiers of the noise, waiting for the time when it can appear again. But only emptiness and nothingness are stationed on the frontiers of verbal noise. Words no longer arise from silence today but from other words, from the noise of other words. The word that arises from silence, on the other hand, moves from the silence into the word and then back again into the silence, out of the silence to the new word and back again into the silence and so on, so that the word always comes from the center of silence. The flow of the sentence is continually interrupting the horizontal flow of the sentence. Mere verbal noise, on the other hand, moves uninter- ruptedly along the horizontal line of the sentence. The only important thing seems to be that the noise should go on without interruption, not that it should mean anything. Cityful passing away, other cityful coming, passing away too: other coming on, passing on. Houses, lines of houses, streets, miles of pavements, piled up bricks, stones. Changing hands. This owner, that. Landlord never dies they say. Other steps into his shoes when he gets notice to quit. They buy the place up with gold and still they have all the gold. Swindle in it somewhere. Piled up in cities, worn away age after age. Pyramids in sand. Built on bread and onions. Slaves. Chinese wall. Babylon. Big stones left. Round towers. Rest rubble, sprawling suburbs, jerrybuilt, Kerwan's mushroom houses, built of breeze. Shelter for the night. No one is anything. This is the very worst hour of the day. Vitality. Dull, gloomy: hate this hour. Feel as if I had been eaten and spewed. (James Joyce) That is an example of the language of verbal noise. In this so-called language subject, predicate, object, and adverbs are all mixed up together. The sentence becomes an almost amorphous mass of sound, out of which a single sound occasionally booms forth more prominently than the others. Such words are mere inti- mations, mere notifications of something: they do not go so far as to mean anything. (One can say that meanings are conveyed even by verbal noise. That is quite right. But the meaning conveyed is a merely material statement of fact; a true meaning is possible only when the word refers, draws attention to the infinity, of the thing described [Husserl]. This quality of infinity, which can never be completely expressed or exhausted by words, is present in silence. In verbal noise, therefore, it is true that material meanings are conveyed, but the medium in which the meaning appears—the medium of the verbal noise—is hostile to the very nature of meaning; it out- weighs and swallows up the meaning.) Language has become a mere mechanical vehicle transporting the outward signs of language. Language has ceased to be organic and plastic, ceased to establish things firmly. Words have become merely signs that something is being fetched out of the jumble of noise and thrown at the listener. The word is not specifically a word. It can now be replaced by signs— color signs or sound signs; it has become an apparatus, and like every mere apparatus it is always facing the possibility of destruction. And therefore the man who does not live directly from the word, but allows himself to be dragged along by the apparatus of noise, also faces destruction at any moment. These verbal noises do not seem to be spoken by men at all: they are verbal ghosts coming from the world of dead words, talking amongst themselves, one dead word with another, and happy if two or three happened to form themselves into a consecutive sentence, just as ghosts are happy when they meet each other in a ghostly place. The destruction of life consists in turning it into an enemy. Life is immortal and when killed it seems like the awful ghost of itself. (Hegel) The destruction of the word consists in turning it into the enemy, but not an enemy that confronts but one that penetrates and permeates us like a ghost. Contrast a sentence from the world of real words, a sentence from J.P. Hebel: It is curious that a man who seems to be without much substance can impart wisdom to another who regards himself as exceptionally wise and understanding. In this sentence each part is exact in itself, conscious of its value, standing on its own, yet all the words are related to something higher. "It is curious": these words create the space for an event. It is as though they were drawing a cord round a room so that something definite can happen therein. And with the last word "curious" it is as if one could see a board announcing that something remarkable was about to take place here. "That some- times a man": a man appears in this marked-off space, hesitantly: "sometimes" is the sign that he is hesitating. "Who seems to be without much substance": the man seems small in this big space. One waits to see what is going to happen to him, and it happens: "that he can impart wisdom to another". And all at once the hesitant little man seems big and the man who "regards himself as exceptionally wise and understanding" becomes small. It is as though the "exceptional wisdom and under- standing" were taken from him like so much baggage that does not belong to him. Every word in this sentence of Hebel shows that the sentence is firmly established. This word is so secure and the words in it so secure, that the word needs only a little sentence like that to make known that it exists. A whole world and all the words of this world stand close to this sentence. 2 The verbal noise by which the real word is replaced today does not arise from a definite act, like the word. It is not actively begotten, but produced by proliferation— that is to say: one noise divides to produce another noise. The real word is created in the qualitative, verbal noise in the quantitative sphere. Verbal noise seems in fact never to have been specific- ally created. It seems to always have been there. There does not seem to be any space left where there could possibly ever have been anything but noise. It has infil- trated into everything. We take it for granted much as we take the air itself for granted. Everything begins and ends with noise. It does not seem to depend for its exist- ence on man at all: it seems to be something objective outside him. The noise of words is not spoken by man at all: it is simply spoken all around him. It penetrates him, fills him up to the very brim, and the noise is what over- flows through the edge of his mouth. Nobody listens to him as he speaks, for listening is only possible when there is silence in man: listening and silence belong together. Instead of truly speaking to others today we are all waiting merely to unload on to others the words that have collected inside us. Speech has become a purely animal, excretive function. Verbal noise is neither silence nor sound. It permeates silence and sound alike and it causes man to forget both silence and the world. There has ceased to be any difference between speech and silence, since one single noise of words permeates both the speaker and the non-speaker. The silent listener has simply become a non-speaker. Verbal noise is a pseudo-language and a pseudo-silence. That is to say, something is spoken and yet it is not real language at all. Something disappears in the noise and yet it is not real silence. When the noise suddenly stops, it is not followed by silence, but merely a pause in which the noise accumulates in order to expand with even greater force when it is released. It is as though the noise were afraid that it might dis- appear, as if it were constantly on the move, because it must always be convincing itself that it really exists. It does not believe in its own existence. The real word, on the contrary, has no such fear, even when it is not being expressed in sound: its existence is in fact even more palpable in the silence. Man, however, who has become a mere appendage of verbal noise, believes decreasingly in the reality of his own existence. He looks at himself in the thousands of pictures on the screen and in the illustrated papers, as if he were trying to make sure that man still exists, still looks like man. Man is so unreal today that in a room in front of great mirrors people do not look real but as if they had come out of the reflections in the mirror, sent out for a holiday. And when the lights are switched off they seem to fall back into the mirror and disappear in its darkness. But where silence is still an active force, man is con- stantly re-created by the word that comes out of the silence, and constantly disappearing in the silence before God. His existence is a continuous creation in the word through God and a disappearing in the silence before God. Today his existence is merely a continuous emerging from the noise of words and a continuous disappearing therein. 3 Language is so conditioned by its origin in the Logos, which is order, that it does not admit into the human world much that lies outside the human order. Language is a protection for man. Many demonic things are waiting to invade man and to destroy him, but man is protected from contact with the demonic; indeed he is unable even to notice it because it does not enter into language: the word defends man from the invasion of the demonic. But only if man preserved the word in its true nature is it able to maintain its power against evil. The noise of words which is the modern substitute for language is perforated and therefore open to penetration by the powers of the demonic. Everything can steal into the noise of words; everything can get mixed up in it, even the demonic. In fact the noise is itself a part of the demonic. In the noise everything is propagated in all directions. Antisemitism, class warfare, national socialism, bolshev- ism, literature—everything spreads itself out in all direc- tions. Everything has arrived everywhere before man comes on the scene at all. Everything is there waiting for him. All limits and frontiers become blurred, all standards are destroyed. The real word sets up frontiers. The noise of words leaps over the frontiers, ignores them altogether. In this world of verbal noise a war easily becomes "total" because war can easily take over everything for its own ends. Everything is already mixed up with war before its seizes hold of everything. In this verbal noise everything can be said and every- thing abolished and annulled. It is in fact annulled even before it is said. The most stupid and the most intelligent things can be said only to be leveled out, for the main thing is the general sound of noise, not what produces the noise. Whether it is produced by good or by evil is of no account. This is the mechanism of irresponsibility at work. In this world of verbal noise, in which one thing passes into another, where everything is in everything else, there are no frontiers outside and no frontiers inside man. Everyone has access to everything, everyone understands everything. And it cannot simply happen that someone (like Goethe) cannot understand Hölderlin, or someone (like Jacob Burkhardt) deliberately keeps away from Rembrandt (where there is a real person, there is a frontier in the person: that is the very essence and nature of true persons). But here in the noise of words no one is ex- cluded from having Goethe and Hölderlin and Rembrandt and Jacob Burkhardt: everything is accessible to everyone. Everything therefore is carried along in the noise, and any and everything can develop out of it. Nothing arises any longer through a specific act, through a decision and through the creative. Everything turns up automatically: through a kind of mimicry the noise produces what is required by the circumstances of the moment, and this is conveyed to man. For example, if the surrounding world is Nazi, then Nazi ideas are conveyed by the noise, and this takes place without man's having decided for Nazidom by a special act of his own conscience. Man is so much a part of the verbal noise going on all around him that he does not notice what is being conveyed to him. When a new situation appears, then the noise stops conveying Nazi ideas to him—or rather when it has be- come bored with the prevailing idea it changes its note just for the sake of a change. The attitude of man is dependent on the movement of the noise, no longer on his own will. Man no longer lives with and through the word. The word is no longer the place where man decides for truth or for love: the noise itself makes the decision for him. The noise is the main thing: man is only the place occupied by the noise, the space for the noise to fill. The noise is also no longer a deposit of the action: it is al- ready part of the action and that is what makes it dangerous. The real word, on the other hand, comes from the Logos. It is maintained by the continuity and the discipline of the Logos,and is checked in its movement by its relation with the Logos, which takes it into the depths and away from the horizontal rush of mere noise. The action man undertakes does not therefore arise directly from the word but comes from a greater depth, from the place where the word arose from the Logos. Therefore the action is not fastened to the word, but at a still deeper level, to the Logos. And therefore such an action is protected from the perils of unrestrained license. In the general verbal noise of today, actions have no foothold, no frontiers, no control, because they are not kept within proper bounds by the word. They are in fact covered by the noise all around them. They disappear therein and real actions have ceased to exist. This therefore is the world that moves automatically with noise and action. It seems like a world of magic, for everything takes place in it without human decision, of its own accord. And precisely this appearance of magic is what seduces man. 4 In the world of verbal noise, individual events lack a specific character of their own, a character that gives them a special face, just as each individual person has been given a special face. In the world of verbal noise, events are no longer distinct from each other: the noise makes them all the same. That is why events today take on such big dimen- sions; that is why they shout and shriek at us. It is as if one event were trying to separate itself from all the others by making as much noise as possible, since it can no longer do so naturally. A recent book deals with "The Year 1848 in Europe", a compilation of the events, day by day, of the whole year. Many things happened in 1848. Whole nations rose in revolt; kings fell; the workers were more dissatisfied than ever; the rich resisted their claims more than ever; new great powers—Italy and Germany—began to shape un- easily; wars began or seemed to be threatening; no day passed without some exciting news; the whole earth was full of new events—and one might perhaps think that this superabundance of events was of the same kind as the jumble of events today. But it would be quite wrong to think so. Every event that occurred in 1848 was clearly distinct from every other event, unmistakably itself, not inter- changeable with any other event, having its own physiog- nomy and its own particular and unique effect. And above all, a special act was necessary in order that it might exist at all, and it did really exist, absolutely, uniquely, and specifically. It was valid in its own right and not merely because of the excitement all around it. The medium in which it existed was first created by the event itself. It is the other way around today. First comes the medium—namely, the verbal noise; that is the important thing. It attracts the event, that is to say, it forms out of itself something into something that looks like an event. But the event is not a specific phenomenon: it is merely a condensation, a concentration of the noise, no more than that. And that is why all events are similar, and also why they arouse so little interest. People do not bother about politics today because they are bored by events. Events are easily forgotten, and man does not even need to forget them himself: the noise does it for him. If events were not dissolved in the noise, if they were still real, then it would be impossible for them to follow each other so quickly. For a real event needs a certain measure of time; there is a definite relationship between the reality of an event and its duration. A real event needs to acquire its own duration from the duration of time. When an event no longer endures in time, but only emerges for a moment and then disappears again, it becomes a phantom. Until about 1920 there was still a reality in events and institutions: that is to say, the verbal noise still moved around something, some clearly distinguishable thing. This movement of the noise round a thing was already becoming stereotyped, but it was still possible to recognize the type of literature around which the noise made its din, namely, expressionism, and this expressionism still seemed more important than the noise all around it. It was still possible to distinguish the idea of "social relief"; although the noise of words was churning all around it and covering it, it was even still possible to see political principles more clearly than the noise of words around them. That is all completely changed today. It is no longer the object that makes the noise around it, as in former times, but the noise is now primary, it seeks out an object. It and the object are no longer clearly distinguishable. Routine and object have become immersed in one single noise. It is true that people still talk about this or that particular literary or political object today, but they are only signposts within the noise, merely the places where the objects are taken up into the general noise and where man follows after them, in order to disappear with them in the noise. 5 The noise of words levels everything down, makes everything the same: it is a leveling machine. Individ- uality is a thing of the past. Everyone is merely a part of the noise. Nothing belongs to the individual any longer. Everything has been as it were poured into the general noise. Everyone is entitled to everything because nothing belongs to anyone in particular. The masses have acquired a status of their own. They are the complement of the noise and, like the noise, they are and yet are not, emerging and disappearing, filling everything and yet nowhere tangible. The noise of words is so far-ranging, so immense and incalculable, that it is impossible either to see where it begins and ends on for man to see where he himself begins and ends. The noise is like a swarm of insects: all one sees is a hazy cloud, a cloud of insects giving out a buzz that covers and equalizes everything. Man waits for something to come and tear this vague noise apart by a sharp, piercing sound. He is tired of the monotone of the buzzing; and the unformed, vaguely agitated noise seems to be waiting, too, for something to fall into it and divide it up. The shout of the dictator is what the noise is waiting for. The clear, piercing voice of the dictator and the universal noise correspond to each other. One produces the other, one is impossible without the other. What the dictator says is quite unimportant: what matters is the loudness and clearness of what he says. Man now has a landmark from which he gathers that he exists. Previously he was merely a part of the vague noise of words, but now he is a part of a clear, mechanized language. The mechanized language of the dictator is so much merely a shouting without any real content that when a dictator invades a country, it is as though the essential thing was not the expansion of the frontiers of the invad- ing country but the expansion of the shouting. The aim is to shout down, to destroy by shouting the silence out of the foreign country, to destroy its silent reality, to throw the noise of shouting where the silence was before. The mechanized language of the dictator is a part of the general verbal noise, but the exaggerated coarseness, the brutal aggressiveness, and the war of invasion correspond to it as well. The noise is so unformed that it is always waiting for something clearly formed to fall into. The man who has become lost in the noise is as it were saved by the firm structure of war, even by the firm structure of a brutal action. That is why it is so easy to make war and to commit brutalities in the world of noise. War and bombs are absorbed by the vacuum of this world of noise. As in the beginning of time, words precede actions almost inaudibly (man tones down words because he sees that words produce actions as if by magic), so, at the end of time, actions occur once again almost without accom- panying words, but now because the word has lost the power of creativity: it has been destroyed. 6 Just as the word no longer arises by a special act of creation, but exists all the time as a continual noise, so human actions no longer happen as a result of special decision, but as a part of a continuous process. The process is now the primary, man is a mere appendage of the process. This "labor process" is so secure that it does not seem to depend on man at all: it seems to be a kind of natural phenomenon, almost independent of man alto- gether. And this never-ending process that is somehow outside man's control, corresponds absolutely to the never-ending process of noise. This labor process pene- trates everything so much that it seems to continue inaudibly even in the intervals of work. The point is not the purpose of the labor process, but the fact that it never stops. Just as the word is ground down in the general noise, so the creative energy of man is stamped out in this labor process. There is no human purpose left in this never-ending labor process. A new kind of being has arisen here, a pure being without pur- pose, which is taken for granted only because of its appar- ent continuity. It is taken so much for granted that it is not discussed at all. And that is the great power of the labor process: that it has established itself outside the sphere of discussion. Nothing much is gained by adding improvements to it. The whole labor process today is a falsification, and therefore not to be improved by alterations. On the con- tray, such alterations give the impression that the whole process is real and improvable, and they therefore give it a false legitimacy. 7 Even more than the labor process, the machine is the embodiment of the never-ending, sterile uniformity of the world of verbal noise. The machine is noise turned into iron and steel. And just as the noise never dares to stop—as if it were afraid that it might disappear if it were not always to be occupying the whole of space, so there is a like fear in the machine that it might be made to vanish like a ghost if it were not always convincing itself of its own existence by being in constant motion. Today man no longer believes in an enduring life after death, but as a substitute he lays claim to some kind of vague continuity that seems to be guaranteed by the never-ending process of noise, labor, and technics. In the machine constantly in motion, there is a kind of pseudo-eternity. It is as though man himself would cease to be manifest if the machine stopped moving. In a world in which there is no other kind of eternity, there is at least the continuous, never-ending movement of the machine. In a factory it is as though silence was being poured into the empty spaces between the iron bars and manu- factured into noise. It is as though the great machines were intending to grind down all the silence of earth—in fact, as though they had already ground it down and were now engaged merely on the last motions of digestion. The machines stand there in triumph, as if they were now considering a new campaign of destruction after the com- pletion of the destruction of silence. The machine at rest fills up the space in which it stands even more than when it is in motion. Everything belongs to it now. The very air and the stillness seem hard with steel. The stillness that exists when machines stop working is no silence but an emptiness. Therefore there is an empti- ness in the worker's life after the day's work in the factory. The emptiness of the machine follows him home. That is the true cause of his suffering, the real oppression. The peasant, on the other hand, continues to live in the silence in which he has worked, after his work is over. The workman is mute, the peasant silent. People have spoken of "the world of the working class", the "world of the machine". But the machine that thrusts the worker into the emptiness in which it is itself, is no world, but the end of a world, and the end of a world is quite unable to fill a man with happiness, but only with sadness and despair. That is why the worker can never be content with the machine as a source of happiness. Man can never be helped by the machine, because it removes him from that realm of time which is a moment of eternity. The continuously moving machine makes a mechanized duration of time, in which there is no autono- mous moment, no "atoms of eternity". This mechanized duration has no relationship of any kind to time: it does not fill time but space. Time seems to be stuck fast and transformed into space. Thus man is separated from time. That is why he is so lonely when faced with the machine, which makes him merely a creature of space. And instead of time moving, only space seems to be moving with the motions of the machine. Thus man lives only in space, as in a shaft without end digging its way ever deeper through the machine. In this world of the machine, the word of the poet can never be born, for the word of the poet comes from silence, not from noise. All the machine-poetry of today seems to have been punched out of metal by the machine itself. And the god who is possible in this machine world is a god manufactured by the machine itself: in the truest sense of the word the deus ex machina. 8 In this world of noise the important thing for man is not reality but possibility. Possibilities are not something firmly established and clearly seen, but move from one vagueness to another. They have no beginning and no end. They are not unambiguous but rather like a vague buzzing. Just as the word and true reality belong to each other, so noise and possibility belong together. The world of noise is also the world of experiment. An experiment is by its very nature not completed, not clearly defined. It does not arise by reason of a definite act, independent of other acts. It is not like an autonomous phenomenon but or like the continuation of other experiments, a variation of them, just as one verbal noise is merely the continuation of other noises. Therefore experiments never stop: they go on automatically. And man becomes merely the laboratory assistant, who is permitted to write down whatever they choose to com- municate to him. The way in which things are bound together today by the law of cause and effect in such a manner that things are only material for this law—this process is also a pendant to the verbal noise. This is not intended as an attack on the law of cause and effect itself. The law of cause and effect is necessary, it is a part of the human structure. And there is also a readiness in things themselves to be bound to each other according to the laws of causality. But this relationship must not become autonomous, it must not exist for its own sake, but must be for the sake of things and for the sake of man. It is the method of psychoanalysis, of depth psychology, and a great part of the rest of psychology, to analyze a phenomenon into an infinite series of explanations. The phenomenon becomes covered with explanations and disappears in them. Just as the word falls to pieces in the general noise of words, so a phenomenon or a fact falls to pieces in the process of explanation. Just as there are no longer any clearly defined words, but only the vague noise of words, so there are no longer any clear phenomena or clear facts, but only vague explanations of phenomena and facts. There is a kind of mechanism of explanation at work today which operates automatically and draws all phenom- ena into its activity. Phenomena have become nothing but material for this machinery of explanation. It is as though everything has been explained in advance—even before the actual appearance of the phenomenon itself. It is not the explanation that is sought in order to explain the phenomenon, but the phenomenon that is sought as material for the ready-made explanation. Phenomena are dissolved into nothing by psychoan- alytical and depth-psychological explanations. For exam- ple, the phenomena of father, mother, and son are des- troyed by the explanation of psychoanalysis: Oedipus murdered his father and became the husband of his mother. These monstrous facts and the phenomena of father, mother, and son are reduced by psychoanalysis to the mere appendage of an erotic complex. Whereas Sophocles makes the phenomena of fatherhood plain for the first time through the murder, it becomes clear as a basic, elemental phenomenon: a father has been slain—a father! And the incest of the son with his mother destroys the image of the mother in the actual moment of incest, it is true. But it rises clearer than ever before through the son's expiation. It becomes the image of the basic phenomenon of motherhood. Not Oedipus but fate itself seems to be wringing out its eyes so that it does not have to see how in the extremes of suffering (not in the extremes of explanation) father, mother, and son die and rise again. The elemental phenomena of fatherhood and mother- hood exist even more firmly and securely after the tragedy. The earth seems to be created more securely than before. The elemental phenomena seem to have been given to the earth for the first time.—But psychoanalysis takes them from the earth and dissolves them with the whole world. Contemporary existential philosophy is an attempt to get right away from the mechanism of verbal noise and things. Man throws himself into nothingness. He prefers to be thrown into nothingness than to be a mere part of the mechanism of words and things. Through this fall the mechanism seems to be interrupted, and man having arrived at nothingness stands faced with a new beginning. But the man who might be faced with a new beginning does not exist at all. He does not exist at all in this nothingness: he is dissolved in it. There is no human person left to approach the elemental things through the categories of existential philosophy, things such as dread, care, death. There is only an empty space in which man and dread and care and death are all immersed in a single, all-dissolving nothingness. Man is an empty waste. He himself is this empty waste, in which the echoes of the world of noise are heard even more loudly than before. Existential philosophy has something of the quality of a subterranean drill, and the noise of this machine is part of the general world of noise. 9 In this universal noise, in which the content of words is no longer valid or important, but only their purely acoustic movements, and in which everything is covered and leveled down by noise, both the word of the poet and the idle chatter of gossips are immersed, swallowed up in the one all-pervading noise. Here there is neither solitude nor true community; only a jumble in the noise. Two objects fundamentally opposed to each other no longer stand face to face, they simply slide by each other in the noise. There are no longer any polarities and therefore no longer any passion, any destiny. What appears as destiny or fate is simply the condensation of many noises into a single enormous din (the din of Nazidom for example). But that is really nothing more than a temporary break- down, an interruption in the flow of noise. Imagination is no longer necessary here: the noise has everything in stock. Truth does not need to be transformed into lies when anyone wants to lie, for truth and falsehood are no longer distinct from each other in the noise. Life here is an emerging from the noise, and death a disappearing therein. Through the machinery of verbal noise, however, more evil than good is spread abroad, for the phenomena of evil correspond to the structure of noise and its uncertainty and vagueness than do the phenomena of goodness. Goodness is almost always clearly defined and demarcated. Evil on the other hand loves the vagueness of twilight. In the twilight it can steal in everywhere. Verbal noise is not evil itself, but it prepares the way for evil: the spirit easily becomes submerged in the noise. The evil that arises in the noise is different, however, from the evil of, for example, Richard III. It is in man before he has made a decision for evil, before he has even noticed its presence inside him. The relationship of this evil to the noise is like that of the marsh-plant to the marsh: they belong to each other from the very outset; where one is there is the other also. Marsh plant and marsh, falsehood and noise—one is the expression of the other. It is quite true, of course, that the simple things still survive in the world of noise: birth and death and love. But they exist in a world bereft of words, as pure phenom- ena, and solitary in the midst of all the machinery. And there is a radiance about them—nowhere so brilliant as here—as if they were trying to burn the machinery all around them in the fire of their radiance. A radiance goes out from the phenomena of love and death and children. The radiance passes from one phenom- enon to another, and in this radiance they cease to be alone. In it they are connected one with another: through the radiance these things speak with one another. Where the word has been destroyed, this radiance has become the language of the elemental things.