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Derborence, when the mountain of the devils fell...

Derborence, the word sings sweetly; it sings sweetly to you and a little sadly in the head. It begins a bit hard and marked, then hesitates and subsides, as one sings it still, "Derborence," and ends in emptiness, as if one wanted to signify by that the ruin, the loneliness, the oblivion.
For desolation lies now on the places that the word designates; no more do the herds go up there, the men themselves have turned away from it...

"Derborence", by Charles Ferdinand Ramuz, 1934.

Can you see the chalet in the middle of the picture, lost in this immensity?

That was all; he had fallen silent. And, at that moment, Séraphin was silent as well; they felt growing around them something completely inhuman and, over a long time, unbearable--the silence. The silence of the high mountains, the silence of the places uninhabited by men, where men are present only temporarily, provisionally; then, if ever so little one should be silent himself, he cocks an ear in vain, he hears only that he hears nothing. It was as if nothing existed anywhere, from us to the other end of the world, from us to the bottom of heaven. Nothing, nothingness, a void, the perfection of a void; a total cessation of being, as if the world had not yet been created, or was no more, as if one were before the beginning of the world or after the end of it. And the ache lodges itself in your breast where it’s like a hand that closes round the heart.

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Additional Photos by Pierre Sottas (padam) Gold Star Critiquer/Gold Star Workshop Editor [C: 177 W: 53 N: 5] (186)
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