Tip:
Highlight text to annotate it
X
writing
to write.
I can't.
No one can.
We have to admit: we cannot.
And yet we write.
It's the unknown one carries within oneself:
writing is what is attained. It's that or nothing.
One can speak of a writing sickness.
What I'm trying to say isn't easy,
but I believe we can find our way here, comrades of the world.
There is a madness of writing that exist in itself
a furious madness of writing, but one is not crazy because of it.
It's the other way around.
Writing is the unknown.
Before writing, we know nothing of what we're going to write.
And with complete lucidity.
It's the unknown of one, of one's head, of one's body.
Writing is not even a reflection,
it is a faculty that is possessed besides oneself, parallel to it,
to another person that appears and moves forward, invisible, gifted with thought,
with rage, and that sometimes, by its own work, it's risking its life.
If we could know something of what we're going to write, prior to do it,
prior to writing, we would never write. It would not be worth it.
To write is to try to know what would we write if we write
— we only know it after —
before, it's the most dangerous question we could make.
But also, the most usual.
Writing comes like the wind, it's naked, it's made of ink,
it's the thing written, and it passes like nothing else passes in life,
nothing more, except that,
life itself.