There's a lot goin' on 'round here, though this blog would be no testimony to that.
But, for example, I'm reading Duras. She's crazy. And there's lots about her I love. Like this, read over a sea bream filet I treated myself to for lunch while evasively cruising this stunningly beautiful man who'd had the nerve to intrude into my purview at the Pause Café. See what I mean, about a lot goin' on? Duras, in a book called Writing, is talking about a fly she watched die one day while she was waiting for an interviewer to arrive. And she's talking about it twenty odd years after the fly died. Proof that he'd had some kind of funeral, just by agonizing under her gaze.
The precision of the hour of death brings us to man's coexistence, with colonized peoples, with the fabulous mass of the unknown to the world, the solitary people, the ones of universal solitude. It's everywhere, life. From bacteria to the elephant. From the earth to the skies, divine or already dead.
It's particularly the "fabulous mass of the unknown to the world" that struck a chord with the awakening Principessa in me. You could also translate it as "the fabulous mass of the world's unknown." In fact, I think it might be better that way. Or you could just say it, in French, "avec la masse fabuleuse des inconnus du monde." That works, too, in certain climes. And if you're Duras, the precise hour of a fly's death (3:20 in the afternoon, if I'm not mistaken) can take you lots of places.