There comes a time when one can no longer carry in one’s brain, heavily, certain memories, certain aspects of the present. I did that once before: I wrote out of myself a lot of destruction. My father once said: blondes only work under compulsion. It must be true. I know what hell it is to write. I know how everything goes to pieces under the strain of it, the fear of not finishing or finishing badly. It never stops and there is never a moment – until the thing is out of one’s hands into alien hands – that is really rest.
