I Write And That Way Rid Myself

I Write As If To Save Somebody’s Life. Probably My Own. Life Is A Kind Of Madness That Death Makes. Long Live The Dead Because We Live In Them.

But I Welcome The Darkness Where The Two Eyes Of That Soft Panther Glow. The Darkness Is My Cultural Broth. The Enchanted Darkness. I Go On Speaking To You, Risking Disconnection: I’m Subterraneously Unattainable Because Of What I Know.

I Only Achieve Simplicity With Enormous Effort

Reality Prior To My Language Exists As An Unthinkable Thought. . . . Life Precedes Love, Bodily Matter Precedes The Body, And One Day In Its Turn Language Shall Have Preceded Possession Of Silence.

Ignorance Of The Law Of Irreducibility Was No Excuse. I Could No Longer Excuse Myself With The Claim That I Didn't Know The Law -- For Knowledge Of Self And Of The World Is The Law That, Even Though Unattainable, Cannot Be Broken, And No One Can Excuse Himself By Saying That He Doesn't Know It. . . . The Renewed Originality Of The Sin Is This: I Have To Carry Out My Unknowing, I Shall Be Sinning Originally Against Life.