terror. If suddenly the sun appeared I would give a cry of astonishment and a world would crumble and there wouldn’t even be time for everyone to flee the brightness. The beings who feed on shadows.
I’m only interested in writing when I surprise myself with what I write. I can do without reality because I can have everything through thought.
Reality doesn’t surprise me. But that’s not true: I suddenly feel such a hunger for the “thing to really happen” that I cry out and bite into reality with my lacerating teeth. And afterwards give a sigh over the captive whose flesh I ate. And again, for a long while, I do without real reality and find comfort in living from my imagination.
How Can You Transform
Everything into a Daydream?
AUTHOR: The fact is more important than the text.
Facts trip me up. That is why I am now going to write about not-facts, that is, about things and their gaudy mystery.
The sensation of writing is curious. When I write I’m not thinking about the reader or myself: then I am — but only from me — I am the words strictly speaking.
ANGELA: I like words. Sometimes a random and scentillating phrase occurs to me, without having anything to do with the rest of me. From now on I’m going to write in this diary, on days when there’s nothing else to do, phrases almost on the edge of meaninglessness but that sound like words of love. Saying meaningless words is my great freedom. It matters little to me to be understood, I want the impact of dazzling syllables, I want the noxiousness of a bad word. Everything is in the word. What I’d give, however, not to have this mistaken desire to write. I feel like I’m being pushed. By whom?
I want to write with words so completely stuck together that there are no gaps between them and me.
I want to write really angry. As for me, I’m from far away. Very far. And from me comes the pure smell of kerosene.
AUTHOR: The word is the defecation of the thought. It glistens.
Every book is blood, it’s pus, it’s excrement, it’s heart torn to shreds, it’s nerves cut to pieces, it’s electric shock, it’s coagulated blood running like boiling lava down the mountain.
ANGELA: Oh I no longer want to express myself with words: I want to do so with “I-kiss-you.”
AUTHOR: I occasionally, I who am writing, seek for every word the unconscious pop of a mortifying feeling.
ANGELA: I want to write and can’t do it. I want to write a story called: “A Foot.” And another called: “You’re So Severe.” In what I write is there nothing between the lines? If that’s the case, I’m lost.
The novel I want to write would be “It’s Like Trying to Remember. And Not Being Able.”
“There’s a book inside all of us,” they say. And maybe that’s why I wanted to expel from me a book that I’d write if I had the talent, and also the perseverance.
I’m feeling like a mermaid out of water. On one half of me the scales are jewels shining in the sun of life. For I came out of the sea into life. And I wriggle my body atop a large rock combing my long salty hair. I don’t know why I wrote that, I think it’s so I won’t forget to take note of something.
I don’t write, for I’m lazy and fluttering. I want to live so much and I think that writing isn’t living. That it’s enough to feel. I can’t do anything for myself in this sense: I’ve already freed myself from my typewriter and demand to be left to my destiny.
AUTHOR: I don’t write because I want to, no. I write because I must. Otherwise what would I do with myself?
Everything I’m being or doing or thinking has a musical accompaniment. There are entire and consecutive days that are accompanied by a powerful and gloomy organ. When I’m being hard on myself the accompaniment is a quartet.
I almost don’t know what I feel, if in fact I feel at all. Whatever doesn’t exist comes to exist when it receives a name. I write to bring things into existence and to exist myself. Since I
I’m only interested in writing when I surprise myself with what I write. I can do without reality because I can have everything through thought.
Reality doesn’t surprise me. But that’s not true: I suddenly feel such a hunger for the “thing to really happen” that I cry out and bite into reality with my lacerating teeth. And afterwards give a sigh over the captive whose flesh I ate. And again, for a long while, I do without real reality and find comfort in living from my imagination.
How Can You Transform
Everything into a Daydream?
AUTHOR: The fact is more important than the text.
Facts trip me up. That is why I am now going to write about not-facts, that is, about things and their gaudy mystery.
The sensation of writing is curious. When I write I’m not thinking about the reader or myself: then I am — but only from me — I am the words strictly speaking.
ANGELA: I like words. Sometimes a random and scentillating phrase occurs to me, without having anything to do with the rest of me. From now on I’m going to write in this diary, on days when there’s nothing else to do, phrases almost on the edge of meaninglessness but that sound like words of love. Saying meaningless words is my great freedom. It matters little to me to be understood, I want the impact of dazzling syllables, I want the noxiousness of a bad word. Everything is in the word. What I’d give, however, not to have this mistaken desire to write. I feel like I’m being pushed. By whom?
I want to write with words so completely stuck together that there are no gaps between them and me.
I want to write really angry. As for me, I’m from far away. Very far. And from me comes the pure smell of kerosene.
AUTHOR: The word is the defecation of the thought. It glistens.
Every book is blood, it’s pus, it’s excrement, it’s heart torn to shreds, it’s nerves cut to pieces, it’s electric shock, it’s coagulated blood running like boiling lava down the mountain.
ANGELA: Oh I no longer want to express myself with words: I want to do so with “I-kiss-you.”
AUTHOR: I occasionally, I who am writing, seek for every word the unconscious pop of a mortifying feeling.
ANGELA: I want to write and can’t do it. I want to write a story called: “A Foot.” And another called: “You’re So Severe.” In what I write is there nothing between the lines? If that’s the case, I’m lost.
The novel I want to write would be “It’s Like Trying to Remember. And Not Being Able.”
“There’s a book inside all of us,” they say. And maybe that’s why I wanted to expel from me a book that I’d write if I had the talent, and also the perseverance.
I’m feeling like a mermaid out of water. On one half of me the scales are jewels shining in the sun of life. For I came out of the sea into life. And I wriggle my body atop a large rock combing my long salty hair. I don’t know why I wrote that, I think it’s so I won’t forget to take note of something.
I don’t write, for I’m lazy and fluttering. I want to live so much and I think that writing isn’t living. That it’s enough to feel. I can’t do anything for myself in this sense: I’ve already freed myself from my typewriter and demand to be left to my destiny.
AUTHOR: I don’t write because I want to, no. I write because I must. Otherwise what would I do with myself?
Everything I’m being or doing or thinking has a musical accompaniment. There are entire and consecutive days that are accompanied by a powerful and gloomy organ. When I’m being hard on myself the accompaniment is a quartet.
I almost don’t know what I feel, if in fact I feel at all. Whatever doesn’t exist comes to exist when it receives a name. I write to bring things into existence and to exist myself. Since I
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