The Angel, for us, is evening, fallen on the dazzling arena.
If your solitude, paradoxically, is spotlighted,
and the darkness made up of thousands of eyes judging you,
fearing and hoping for your fall, it matters little:
you will dance on in a desert solitude,
blindfolded, if you can, eyelids fastened shut.
But nothing — especially not applause or laughter —
will keep you from dancing for your image.
You are an artist — alas — you can no longer deny yourself
the monstrous precipice of your eyes. Narcissus dances?
But it is something else besides vanity,
egoism and love of self that is at stake.
Is it Death itself? Dance alone, then.
Pale, livid, anxious to please or displease your image:
but it is your image that will dance for you.
Jean Genet, The Tightrope Walker