am not prepared. Decisions not only about provoking the birth of facts but also decisions about the best way to be.
A tension of the string of a violin.
I don’t understand my remotest past, childhood and adolescence which lives without understanding and without paying attention. I was giddy. Now without the slightest support at the foundation of my life I am loose and perilous and events come at me like something always discontinuous, not connected to a previous understanding to which these events would be an intelligible succession. But no: events don’t seem to have their cause in me. I don’t properly understand what’s happening to me. And my point of view regarding honors is primary.
Why do I want to make a hero of myself? I in fact am anti-heroic. What torments me is that everything is “for the time being,” nothing is “always.” Life — from the moment you’re born — is guided, idealized by dreams. I plan nothing, I leap into the darkness and chew upon shadows, and in these shadows I sometimes see the luminous and pure sparkling of three inedible diamonds. So I rise to the surface with a diamond in each pupil of my eyes in order to pass through the opacity of the world and another between my half-closed lips so that when I speak my words will be crystalline, hard and dazzling.
AUTHOR: I wanted a very delicate, schizoid, elusive true kind of writing that would reveal to me the unwrinkled face of eternity. Obsessed with the desire to be happy I lost my life. I moved with the tension of a bow and arrow in an unreality of desires.
ANGELA: What’s missing in my writing is the dream. How secret living is! My secret is life. I tell no one I’m alive.
AUTHOR: We’re living at the fin de siècle, wasting away in decadence — or are we in the Golden Age? we’re on the verge of an unfolding. On the verge of knowing ourselves. On the verge of the year 2000.
The world? Its merciless and tragic history is my past. Could it be that the word topaz has already been drained of its thought? No, I still feel the shining of an energy in the translucent golden word called topaz.
I’m a beggar with a beard full of lice seated on the sidewalk crying. I’m no more than that. I’m neither happy nor sad. I’m exempt and unscathed and gratuitous.
ANGELA: To sleep . . . With my heart all shut and unsteady, my hand shaking, the intimate warmth of a sip of red wine. And getting into a bed full of pillows and choosing the best position. Then a murmur of prayer comes from my warm blood. But I never can capture the zero-instant when I fall asleep and sleeping I die.
It’s night and I went barefoot through the shadowy sands but the sea was a thick outpouring of the dark night — and I was scared like a little swallow. The black sea was calling me in the undertow of the low tide, black surf.
After hardly sleeping all night I’m in a state of rustic vigilance. And what my dreams should have been if I had slept at night started happening by day: in any case these dreams turned up and had to simply had to pass even through narrow gaps that the day opens within me. So it’s impossible for me to stop dreaming and letting my mind wander. I’m a skull that’s hollow and with vibrating walls and full of bluish clouds: they are the matter of sleeping and dreaming and not of being. I must simply must invent my future and invent my path.
I want the shining gravel in the dark brook. I want the sparkle of the stone beneath the rays of sun, I want death that frees me. I could manage to have pleasure if I abstained from thinking. Then I’d feel the ebb and flow of air in my lungs. I try to live without past without present and without future and here I am free.
It is morning. The world is as happy as an abandoned circus.
AUTHOR: It’s a very pretty day. There’s a misty rain, the sky is dark and the sea turbulent. Souls flutter about the cemetery, vampires are on the loose, bats huddle in their caves. Refuge for mystery and
A tension of the string of a violin.
I don’t understand my remotest past, childhood and adolescence which lives without understanding and without paying attention. I was giddy. Now without the slightest support at the foundation of my life I am loose and perilous and events come at me like something always discontinuous, not connected to a previous understanding to which these events would be an intelligible succession. But no: events don’t seem to have their cause in me. I don’t properly understand what’s happening to me. And my point of view regarding honors is primary.
Why do I want to make a hero of myself? I in fact am anti-heroic. What torments me is that everything is “for the time being,” nothing is “always.” Life — from the moment you’re born — is guided, idealized by dreams. I plan nothing, I leap into the darkness and chew upon shadows, and in these shadows I sometimes see the luminous and pure sparkling of three inedible diamonds. So I rise to the surface with a diamond in each pupil of my eyes in order to pass through the opacity of the world and another between my half-closed lips so that when I speak my words will be crystalline, hard and dazzling.
AUTHOR: I wanted a very delicate, schizoid, elusive true kind of writing that would reveal to me the unwrinkled face of eternity. Obsessed with the desire to be happy I lost my life. I moved with the tension of a bow and arrow in an unreality of desires.
ANGELA: What’s missing in my writing is the dream. How secret living is! My secret is life. I tell no one I’m alive.
AUTHOR: We’re living at the fin de siècle, wasting away in decadence — or are we in the Golden Age? we’re on the verge of an unfolding. On the verge of knowing ourselves. On the verge of the year 2000.
The world? Its merciless and tragic history is my past. Could it be that the word topaz has already been drained of its thought? No, I still feel the shining of an energy in the translucent golden word called topaz.
I’m a beggar with a beard full of lice seated on the sidewalk crying. I’m no more than that. I’m neither happy nor sad. I’m exempt and unscathed and gratuitous.
ANGELA: To sleep . . . With my heart all shut and unsteady, my hand shaking, the intimate warmth of a sip of red wine. And getting into a bed full of pillows and choosing the best position. Then a murmur of prayer comes from my warm blood. But I never can capture the zero-instant when I fall asleep and sleeping I die.
It’s night and I went barefoot through the shadowy sands but the sea was a thick outpouring of the dark night — and I was scared like a little swallow. The black sea was calling me in the undertow of the low tide, black surf.
After hardly sleeping all night I’m in a state of rustic vigilance. And what my dreams should have been if I had slept at night started happening by day: in any case these dreams turned up and had to simply had to pass even through narrow gaps that the day opens within me. So it’s impossible for me to stop dreaming and letting my mind wander. I’m a skull that’s hollow and with vibrating walls and full of bluish clouds: they are the matter of sleeping and dreaming and not of being. I must simply must invent my future and invent my path.
I want the shining gravel in the dark brook. I want the sparkle of the stone beneath the rays of sun, I want death that frees me. I could manage to have pleasure if I abstained from thinking. Then I’d feel the ebb and flow of air in my lungs. I try to live without past without present and without future and here I am free.
It is morning. The world is as happy as an abandoned circus.
AUTHOR: It’s a very pretty day. There’s a misty rain, the sky is dark and the sea turbulent. Souls flutter about the cemetery, vampires are on the loose, bats huddle in their caves. Refuge for mystery and
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