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The Book of Shares
As we approach sharing let us ask: "What belongs to me?"
Balance sheet of a life ratified by death.
Whatever exists has no existence unless shared.
Possessions under seal are lost possessions.
At first sight, giving, offering yourself in order to receive an equivalent gift in return, would seem to be ideal sharing.
But can All be divided?
Can a feeling, a book, a life be shared entirely?
On the other hand, if we cannot share all, what remains and will always remain outside sharing? What has never, at the heart of our possessions, been ours?
And what if we can share the vital desire to share, our only means of escape from solitude, from nothingness?
Balance sheet of a life ratified by death.
Whatever exists has no existence unless shared.
Possessions under seal are lost possessions.
At first sight, giving, offering yourself in order to receive an equivalent gift in return, would seem to be ideal sharing.
But can All be divided?
Can a feeling, a book, a life be shared entirely?
On the other hand, if we cannot share all, what remains and will always remain outside sharing? What has never, at the heart of our possessions, been ours?
And what if we can share the vital desire to share, our only means of escape from solitude, from nothingness?
105 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1987
3 people are currently reading
124 people want to read
About the author
Edmond Jabès
91 books85 followersEdmond Jabes was a major voice in French poetry in the latter half of this century. An Egyptian Jew, he was haunted by the question of place and the loss of place in relation to writing, and he was one of the most significant thinkers of what one might call poetical alienation. He focused on the space of the book, seeing it as the true space in which exile and the promised land meet in poetry and in question. (This is summarized from the reader's description in A New History of French Literature, ed. Denis Hollier.) Very many of Jabes's books of prose and poetry have been translated into English, including The Book of Dialogue ( Wesleyan, 1987) and The Book of Margins (Chicago, 1993), both translated by Rosmarie Waldrop.
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Displaying 1 - 6 of 6 reviews
January 9, 2008
Over the years it seems that the most influential books for me are the ones I find randomly at used bookstores.
I read this one in one sitting, which felt more like meditating or watching burning prayers go up in smoke.
Jabes was an Egyptian Jew who lived in exile in France. This book of verses is "post-modern" in that it is self-referential and deconstructive, but to me it stands apart because of the devotion to love and presence with which it sacrifices language.
I read this one in one sitting, which felt more like meditating or watching burning prayers go up in smoke.
Jabes was an Egyptian Jew who lived in exile in France. This book of verses is "post-modern" in that it is self-referential and deconstructive, but to me it stands apart because of the devotion to love and presence with which it sacrifices language.
December 2, 2017
"Ci si spossessa solo di se stessi".
"Ogni possesso ci frustra, là dove ci favorisce. [...] Moriamo per quel che ci ha fatto essere, assai più che per quel che siamo".
"Ogni possesso ci frustra, là dove ci favorisce. [...] Moriamo per quel che ci ha fatto essere, assai più che per quel che siamo".
March 7, 2021
Jabes deconstructs language to find how deep meaning can be, if you want to read something like you've never read before, read this x
August 4, 2025
Ideas: loaded dice in the hands of Satan.
October 25, 2025
One day we shall be able to read between the words
to fall silent in turn, with the hope of dissolving into it
In heaven, nothing to read.
My pen is honest, - said a sage, - words, alas, are less so.
O fated words
In my wandering, I am its writing.
We breathe, we read. Same rhythm.
his infinite emptiness which other words will try to reduce, so that writing always means hoping for salvation by a word still to come
to be able, one day, to close my life as one shuts a book, convinced that there is still a treasure hidden within
Words of another memory, O distant aim.
Silence precedes us.
there is no peak that mankind cannot scale, death knows it well, guarding the highest.
don't be too hard on words, they sometimes have trouble reaching us where we are never sure we are
let God lower his eyes, and we are no more
the lifetime of a breath. Readability, audibility, always at stake.
there is a word inside us stronger than all others and more personal. A word of solitude and certainty, so buried in its night that it is barely audible to itself. A word of refusal, but also of absolute commitment, forging its bonds of silence in the unfathomable silence of the bond. This word cannot be shared. Only sacrificed.
A page of sky, a page of sand. A book of ashes.
life lays bare our beginning
parting of the waters, our limits are within us
to fall silent in turn, with the hope of dissolving into it
In heaven, nothing to read.
My pen is honest, - said a sage, - words, alas, are less so.
O fated words
In my wandering, I am its writing.
We breathe, we read. Same rhythm.
his infinite emptiness which other words will try to reduce, so that writing always means hoping for salvation by a word still to come
to be able, one day, to close my life as one shuts a book, convinced that there is still a treasure hidden within
Words of another memory, O distant aim.
Silence precedes us.
there is no peak that mankind cannot scale, death knows it well, guarding the highest.
don't be too hard on words, they sometimes have trouble reaching us where we are never sure we are
let God lower his eyes, and we are no more
the lifetime of a breath. Readability, audibility, always at stake.
there is a word inside us stronger than all others and more personal. A word of solitude and certainty, so buried in its night that it is barely audible to itself. A word of refusal, but also of absolute commitment, forging its bonds of silence in the unfathomable silence of the bond. This word cannot be shared. Only sacrificed.
A page of sky, a page of sand. A book of ashes.
life lays bare our beginning
parting of the waters, our limits are within us
November 21, 2024
“We see only the future. Yet it is the present which kills us.”
Reading this particular book felt like peering into Edmond's most merciless obsessions. It smothered me at times, the continuous usage of the concepts of "God," "void," "death," "time," "books/writing," and mostly "word," the Verbum Dei. It's like he's grinding his brain, reminding himself of the torment behind existence and the inevitabilty of death.
I enjoyed his "book of Questions" more.
Still one of my favorite poets/writers of all time.
Reading this particular book felt like peering into Edmond's most merciless obsessions. It smothered me at times, the continuous usage of the concepts of "God," "void," "death," "time," "books/writing," and mostly "word," the Verbum Dei. It's like he's grinding his brain, reminding himself of the torment behind existence and the inevitabilty of death.
I enjoyed his "book of Questions" more.
Still one of my favorite poets/writers of all time.
Displaying 1 - 6 of 6 reviews