There are many secrets. The world is full of secrets. There is the secret about which I know nothing, so secret and secreted away that I have no trace of it, except maybe in the form of dreams. There is a secret that is something known and hidden, impossible to reveal because the revelation would bring about the destruction of the secret thing, and also of life. The unknown of this secret is buried in night and silence: we will never know the face it would have if it could appear. The thing AboutwhichIknownothing [dontjenesaisrien] remains secret, this gift[ don] which makes me who I am. One writes like a rescue effort to oneself in the dark: an act of despair because we know there is a treasure to which we will never have access. How ignorant we are about ourselves!