Everything begins with time. The beginning isn’t outside of time; it lies rather in the ecstatic gap of time, a reserve for nostalgia and waiting.
It arises in the question, original momentum or native leap, that man does not master, but by which he can let himself be assaulted, if he consents to being a latecomer.
We often hear about the greatness of the beginning, as if what comes after will always be condemned to remain small, or even diminish it. Is it necessary for the initial thing to be lost and depleted along the way? Are we too distracted by the traces and waste that it leaves behind? Is it because we are only one of the spin-offs amongst others?
Are we incapable of starting? But how do we start from scratch? We’ve missed the beginning. We always begin by justifying the possibility of starting over, searching for evidence of an aim. That is why we often embark on the search for false starts which lead to nothing, if not the certainty of finishing where we had started.
But do we have to begin with the beginning? It’s possible for the beginning to happen later, especially for a thought that comes to mind too early to create a beginning: it’s possible in reality that it’s too impatient to finish with it.
Do we have to begin with a concrete end? We could begin with the result and absolute knowledge, then retrospectively retrace the history of the experience of the conscience. We could equally place the end at the beginning. We end up with false movement and immobility that creates nothing new.
Unless the thought deliberately delays its beginning, and by doing so, consents to starting with a provisional beginning that will involve settling for an incessant renewed repetition, and thus always incomplete.
It’s only through repetition and no recapitulation that the thought can create a path towards a new beginning. Repeating the beginning, or improving the told in new ways, gives it the vigour of the future.
Translated to english by Amy Clarke