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“I just won’t tell you a story now is
because in that case it would be prostitution. And I’m not writing to please
you. Mainly myself. I have to follow the pure line and keep my it
uncontaminated.
”

.

“ Dying must be a mute internal explosion. The body can no longer stand being a
body. And what if dying had the taste of food when you’re very hungry? And what
if dying were a pleasure, selfish pleasure?”

“Each of us is a symbol that deals with symbols—
everything a point of only reference to the real. We desperately try to find an
identity of our own and the identity of the real. And if we understand ourselves
through the symbol that is because we have the same symbols and the same
experience of the thing itself: but reality has no synonyms.”

“Because I suddenly see that I know nothing. Is the blade
of my knife getting blunt? I think it’s more likely that I don’t understand
because what I’m seeing now is difficult: I’m stealthily entering into contact
with a reality that is new to me and still doesn’t have corresponding thoughts,
and much less any word that signifies it. It’s more of a feeling beyond
thought.”
😀

“Following myself along is really what I’m doing when
writing to you and now: following myself without knowing where it will lead me.
Sometimes it’s so hard to follow myself along. Because I’m following something
that’s still nothing more than a nebula. Sometimes I end up giving up.”

“All that’s guiding me is a sense of
discovery. Beyond what’s beyond thought.
”

“I am at this instant in a white void awaiting the next
instant. Measuring time is just a working hypothesis. But whatever exists is
perishable and this forces us to measure immutable and permanent time. It never
began and never will end. Never.”

“I shiver all over when I come into physical contact with
animals or simply see them. Animals fantasticate me. They are time that does not
measure itself. I seem to have a certain horror for the living creature that is
not human and that has my own instincts though free and indomitable. The animal
never substitutes one thing for another.”

“I’m slyly coming into contact with a reality new to me that still has
no corresponding thoughts and not even a word that signifies it—it is a
sensation beyond thought.”

“I want to die with life. I swear that I shall only die
profiting from the last instant. There is a profound prayer within me that will
be born I don’t know when. I would so like to die of health. Like someone
exploding. Éclater is better: j’éclate. For now there’s dialogue with you. Then
it will be monologue. Then the silence. I know that there will be an order.”

“I
deepened myself but I don’t believe in myself because my thought is
invented.”

“ A person eats another from hunger. But I fed myself with my own placenta.”

“ I breathe the energy by night.
And all this in the realm of the fantastic. Fantastic: the world for an instant
is exactly what my heart asks. I am about to die and construct new compositions.
I’m expressing myself very badly and the right words escape me.”

“I am feeling the martyrdom of an untimely sensuality. In
the early hours I awake full of fruit. Who will come to gather the fruit of my
life? If not you and I myself? Why is it that things an instant before they
happen already seem to have happened? It’s because of the simultaneity of time.
And so I ask you questions and these will be many. Because I am a question.
”

“Hear me, hear my silence. What I say is never what I say
but instead something else. When I say “abundant waters” I’m speaking of the
force of body in the waters of the world. It captures that other thing that I’m
really saying because I myself cannot. Read the energy that is in my silence. Ah
I fear God and his silence.”

“And so when I die, I’ll never have been born and lived:
death washes away the traces of the sea-foam on the beach.
Now it is an instant.
Here is another now.
And another. My effort: to bring now the future to here.
I move inside my deep instincts which carry themselves out blindly. I feel then
that I’m near springs, pools and waterfalls, all with abundant waters. And I
free.”

TE IUBESC

“ I don’t like what I just wrote—
but I’m duty-bound to accept the whole section because it happened to me. And I
have much respect for what I happen to myself. My essence is unconscious of
itself and that’s why I obey myself blindly.”

“In truth I’m still not quite seeing properly the thread
of what I’m writing you. I think I never shall—but I acknowledge the dark in
which the two eyes of the soft panther shine. Darkness is my hothouse. Enchanted
darkness. I’ll keep talking to you and taking the risk of disconnection: I am
subterraneously unreachable by my knowledge.”

“And I bathe within it. It is linked to the root that
penetrates inside us into the earth. All that I write you is taut. I use stray
words that are in themselves a free dart: savages, barbarians, decadent noblemen
and gangsters. Does that mean anything to you? It speaks to me.”

“Listen only superficially to what I say and from the lack
of meaning a meaning will be born as from me a high and light life is
inexplicably born. The dense jungle of words thickly envelops what I feel and
live, and transforms everything I am into some thing of mine that remains
outside me. Nature is enveloping: it entangles me entirely and is sexually
alive, just that: alive.”

“. To the span of my existence I
give an occult meaning that goes beyond me. I’m a concomitant being: I gather in
me time past, the present and the future, the time that pulses in the tick-tock
of the clocks.
”

“So writing is the method of using the word as bait: the
word fishing for whatever is not word. When this non-word—between the lines—
takes the bait, something has been written. Once whatever is between the lines
is caught, the word can be tossed away in relief. But that’s where the analogy
ends: the non-word, taking the bait, incorporates it.”

“Am I one of the weak? a weak woman possessed by
incessant and mad rhythm? if I were solid and strong would I even have heard the
rhythm? I find no answer: I am. This is all that comes to me from life. But what
am I? the answer is just: what am I. Though I sometimes scream: I no longer want
to be I! but I stick to myself and inextricably there forms a tessitura of life.”

“No one will know anything: what I know
is so volatile and nearly inexistent that it is between me and I.”

“Yes, this is life seen by life. But suddenly I
forget how to capture whatever is happening, I don’t know how to capture
whatever exists except by living here each thing that arises and no matter what
it is: I am almost free of my errors. I let the free horse run fiery. I, who
trot nervously and only reality delimits me.”

“I write to you as an exercise in sketching before
painting. I see words. What I say is pure present and this book is a straight
line in space. It’s always current, and a camera’s photometer opens and
immediately closes, but keeping within it the flash. Even if I say “I lived” or
“I shall live” it’s present because I’m saying them now.”