… silent rooms where one’s footsteps are absorbed by carpets so thick, so heavy, that no sound reaches one’s ear, as if the very ear of him who walks on once again along these corridors, through these salons and galleries in this edifice of a bygone era, this sprawling, sumptuous baroque, gloomy hotel, where one endless corridor follows another, silent, empty corridors heavy with cold, dark woodwork, stucco, molded paneling, marble, black mirrors, dark-toned portraits, columns, sculpted door frames, rows of doorways, galleries, side corridors that in turn lead to empty salons, salons heavy with ornamentation of a bygone era, silent rooms where one’s footsteps are absorbed by carpets so thick, so heavy, that no sound reaches one’s ear, as if one’s very ear were far away, far from the ground, from the carpet, far from this heavy empty setting, far from this complex frieze running just beneath the ceiling, with its branches and garlands, like ancient leaves, as if the ground were still sand or gravel or flagstones over which I walked once again as if in search of you, between these walls laden with woodwork, stucco, moldings, paintings, framed prints past which I strode, among which even then I was waiting for you, far from this setting in which I now find myself standing before you, waiting for the man who will not be coming now, who is not likely to come now to part us again, to tear you away from me. Will you come?
This intolerable silence these walls, these whispers worse than the silence you’ve made my prison. These days here side by side, walking along these corridors with measured steps, at arm’s length, never closer, never reaching out with fingers or lips.

Be quiet.

These fingers made to hold and eyes made to see you, which must turn from you toward this ornamentation of a bygone era: woodwork, cut-glass mirrors, old-fashioned paintings, stucco garlands with baroque ornaments, trompe-l’aeil capitals, false doors, fake columns, painted perspectives, false exits.
There were always walls, walls all around me. Smooth, even, glazed, without the slightest relief.There were always walls, and silence, as well. I’ve never heard anyone raise their voice in the hotel. No one. Conversations took place in a void, as if words meant nothing, or weren’t meant to in any case. A sentence, once begun, hung suspended in the air, as if frozen by the frost and picked up, probably, where it left off, or elsewhere. It made no difference. It was always the same conversations, the same absent voices. The servants were mute. The games were silent, of course. It was a place for relaxation. No business was carried out, no plots were hatched. No one ever discussed a topic that might cause excitement. The signs were everywhere, “Silence…” “Silence…”
This story is now over, it is coming to an end. A few seconds more and it will solidify forever in a past of marble. Like these statues, this garden carved out of stone, this very hotel with its now-deserted rooms.

Leave me alone, please…

You never seemed to wait for me… but we kept meeting at every turn in the path… behind every scrub… at the foot of every statue… at the corner of every fountain. It was as if in that garden there was only you and me. We spoke of this and that: the name of the statues, the shape of the shrubs, the water in the fountains, the color of the sky. Or else we said nothing at all. But you always kept a certain distance as if on some threshold, the entryway to someplace to dark or unfamiliar.
Come here.
Come closer.

Leave me alone, please..

Always walls, corridors, doors… and beyond still more walls.

Who are you?

You know.

What’s your name?

It doesn’t matter.

You’re like a shadow and you’re waiting for me to approach.

Try to remember. It was evening. It was the last evening, probably. It was almost dark. A faint shadow moved slowly through the dusk. Even before I could make out your features, I know it was you. When you recognized me, you stopped. We stood there a few yards apart without speaking. You stood in front of me, waiting perhaps, as if unable to take another step forward or turn back. You were there, standing straight and still, your arms at your side. And you looked at me. Your eyes are wide open, much too wide. Your lips are slightly parted, as if you were about to speak, or moan, or scream. You were afraid.Your mouth opens a bit more, your eyes open wider still. Your hand is extended in an incomplete gesture of expectation, uncertainty. Or perhaps of appeal, defense. Your fingers tremble slightly. You are afraid.
And now you keep staring into space. You keep seeing him… his gray eyes, his gray silhouette, and his smile. And you’re afraid.
I told you I’d be coming. You’d made no reply. I found all the doors ajar. The hallway door, the sitting room door, your bedroom door. I only had to push them open one by one, then close them behind me, one by one.
You know the rest.

No, I don’t know the rest. I don’t know you.

And once again I walked down these same corridors, walking for days, for months, for years in search of you.

All I ask is that you wait a little longer. Next year, here, same day, same time, and I’ll follow you anywhere. Go away if you love me.

It’s already too late. The hotel grounds were laid out like a kind of French garden, devoid of trees, flowers, or any kind of vegetation. Gravel, stone, marble and straight lines marked out rigid spaces, areas devoid of mystery. At first glance, it seemed impossible to lose your way. At first glance.
Down straight paths, between statues with frozen gestures and granite slabs, where even now you were losing your way forever, in the stillness of the night, alone with me.

- Last Year At Marienbad (1961)