A clamor, in the distance. A crowd running under the rain beating down, between the canvases the sea wind set clattering.
A man passes crying something. What is he saying? What he knows! What he has seen! I make out his words. Ah, I almost understand!
I took refuge in a museum. Outside the great wind mixed with water reigns alone from now on, shaking the glass panes.
In each painting, I think, it’s as if God were giving up on finishing the world.
—Yves Bonnefoy, “The Museum” (translated by Mary Ann Caws), 2014
