Exercises in admiration

Author's name: Emil Cioran

I only met her twice, which is a small amount, but the extraordinary cannot be measured by the standards of time. What immediately drew me to her was her absent and bewildering countenance, her whispers—she didn't speak, but whispered—her restless movements, her gaze that didn't follow people or things, the captivating charm of her silhouette. "Who are you? And where did you come from?" This was the question we wanted to ask her as soon as we saw her. She couldn't answer, too deeply identified with her secret or incapable of betraying it. No one knew how she breathed, or to what game she succumbed to the power of the breath, or what she was searching for among us. What was certain was that she wasn't from here, and her participation in our fall into time was polite or curious.