In the essay "Le dernier à parler," Blanchot follows the implications of this comment. In a sense Blanchot is reading Celan's poems as purer than Mallarmé's OEuvre pure, in that they enunciate the elocutory disparition (or nocturnal othering) of nothing. "Mouvement qui pour autant ne s'interrompt pas: l'affirmation du retour le rend seulement plus stérile, mouvement lent de la roue tournant d'elle-même et sur elle-même, rayons sur un champ noirâtre, peut-être la nuit, la roue nocturne des étoiles, mais la nuit / n'a nul besoin d'étoiles, de même que nulle part / il n'y a demande de toi" (Blanchot 1972, 173). Within the space of the poetic enunciation there is a lexical annulment taking place. There is an other in the brûle-tout of the poem: not a remainder of the fire, but the holocaust's gift of passivity. For Blanchot, the gift of writing is predicated (and pre-dictated) as a silence, the burning whiteness of the page that admits of no speaking. The gift of writing is dying. The last to speak, the last witness, is death: that which cannot be either mastered or witnessed. Blanchot phrases the annulation within Celan's poetry as the approach of death: "voilà le mourir, peut-être, la dure croissance au coeur du mourir, le témoin sans témoin auquel Celan a donné une voix" (180). There can be no witness to the event of death--which is why Blanchot cites Celan on the vanity of expressing death--and yet in Celan's poetic enunciation (enunciation vers) there is a speaking of death without making death present (a speaking without commemoration). Death speaks in speaking as a silencing, a becoming silent where even silence is silenced.