I’m frozen, I’ve just been dumped
here inside my alphabet, I’m shackled
to it and asking myself some questions.
It’s in the area of this invisible lake that I’ll set my story.
Nothing feeds my soul any more:
no starry night transmutes my desert
into sheets of shadow and mystery.
My story is interrupted because I don’t know the first word of the next episode.
I must struggle like someone drowning,
even if I die in the end, roaring and chanting
the name of the woman I love. Only I,
her author, love her. I suffer for her.
As long as I have questions and no answers,
I’ll keep on writing. The silence is such
that not even thought thinks.
My God, I just remembered that we die.
My wish is complicated by the fact that I long to do something original.
Strategy #7: Take Control.
Did the fellow suppose he was made of paper?
One cannot write those words too often: I do
not know. This story I am telling is all in my imagination.
Grounds enclosed by a sharp fence that marks
the boundary between what’s unpredictable
and what is locked up. I risk everything
when I admit why I’m hesitating.
I can barely keep from writing with both hands at once, so I’ll think less.
From now on I’m exempt from acting
coherently and released once and for all
from making a success of my life.
My double life. A night love with you.
A readership that will never be anything more
than the multiplication of your eyes.
I’ve been aging at a terrifying speed. But he must take his place, he must fit himself.
You confuse what’s important with what’s impressive.
To commit suicide everywhere, with no respite – that
is my mission. Then darkness rolled up again,
the darkness that is primeval but not eternal,
and yields to its own painful dawn.
He had accomplished an act of creation, and as he did so Death turned her head away.