I’m going to have to turn my back on you, I tell X. I’m too busy, I’ve got things to do and you bring me down. What are you talking about? he says. This is it, I say, you’re going to have to leave, I have to get on with my life, I’m busy. See you later. I know you, he smirks, you won’t leave me. See you later, I say, walking away. Come back here, he shouts, running towards me.
Sometimes you speak to me, you become almost human, then we speak together. Moments of pause, a gathering together to be celebrated. Moments of ecstasy which make me all the more aware of how you elude me even though I’m made of you. And beyond you? What made you?
Who are you? My self beyond my self. What ties me to and unbinds me from the world. These very words, and the spaces between them. This act of writing, which I’ll never understand. In the beginning was you. I fell into you, I fell into a state beyond repair. And beyond you? Unknown upon unknown.
Experience is in the first place a struggle against the spell in which useful language holds us.
– Battaille (via here)
The word before the first word. The word after the last word. Before and after you. What is it? Impossible silence. The clearing beyond your clearing.
But the very words with which you address me are my words, you tell me. They are already the words with which I address myself. That’s already much, you say, so much that’s there’s little more for you to do, here in the clearing I make for you, when you choose to address me. But how can I be sure this is your voice? I say. And what is this ‘little more’?
They say the mark of insanity is doing the same thing over and over expecting a different result. And me, when I address you over and over expecting a different result, am I insane? What happens when the result is the same no matter what one does? When the same non-answer stretches out around me each time I address you? Do I stop? Do something else? Go elsewhere? But there’s nowhere else to go. Or is there?
What do I want, why do I write, why do I address you? I want you to reveal yourself in me, to reveal yourself through me, in these my words. I’m in you yet outside you, how can this be? So easy to get tired, to give up. Ink marks on a page, obscure in a century. Scratchings in rats’ alley. Is it possible that they both hide and reveal me, hide and reveal you? In writing: inside and outside writing. The first word: bite of the apple. The horror that brings you near in your distance from me, over and over.
Death is what conceptual language represents negatively, like a hole, a void, but poetic speech can invert this, make it positive. [...] Since thanks to poetry the world is closer, and its unity more perceptible, we feel more part of that unity – like the leaf of a tree, even if it falls off the branch, in an instant that is eternal. So what is death? But I have to add that all this is true only in theory. Poetry would be just that – transcending death – if it were not inaccessible; we can only try to approach it. That is why one should not call oneself a poet. It would be pretentious. It would mean that one has resolved the problems poetry presents. Poet is a word one can use when speaking of others, if one admires them sufficiently. If someone asks me what I do, I say I’m a critic, or a historian.
– Yves Bonnefoy (via here)
In writing, in you, my demiurge. And beyond you and your endless detours? I lost my way the moment I started addressing you. In writing: Maya. And beyond you, beyond these illusions of writing? But isn’t this ‘beyond’ itself part of writing? With the very first word, no beginning or end in sight. No project. As lost now as ever. In writing: under the sun of the Fallen Angel. Writing: images in a broken mirror. Still I like to wonder what the mirror reflects.