他转回房里，堵住房门。他的背抵住墙，等着。但不论分钟或小时都无法耗竭他的等待。他自觉越来越接近一个异形畸怪的虚无，而与之相遇却需要无限的时间。时时刻刻，他感觉这个缺无愈来愈近，并且他超前了它一小段时间——微不足道，却又无法毁灭的一段时间。

他试着推摇他身躯的巨大重量，那个他所缺少并且幻想是借来的躯体。他必须感受那股从他自体发散、如同来自一异外太阳的仿真热流，倾听那从假泉源中流淌出来的气息，注意着一颗假心的跳动。

Atheistic mysticism can be interesting; when added to existential void-gazing and cod metaphysics, it's much less so. This book gets good once we leave Thomas's navel behind and spend some time with Anne, and then see how Thomas has changed (or failed to change) with Anne's death. But rather too much of this is faux-intellectual bloviating romantic silliness. I assume Blanchot's other work is less so, and look forward to reading it. ( )