was a child I’ve been searching for the breath of the word that gives life to murmurings. The only reason I never became a real writer is because I get too lost between the lives and my life. And also because I need to put order in my life, in that chaos from which this grave and non-assimilable life is made. I can’t relate to my life.
Serious like a boy of 13. Serious like an open mouth singing. The annunciation.
How rude: making me wait.
Seeing is a miracle. How can you describe a pyramid? How can you describe a light turned on?
ANGELA: I’m so ashamed to write. Fortunately I don’t publish. When we speak to God we shouldn’t use words. The only way to make contact is by being alive and mute, like the needle of a wise and unconscious compass.
AUTHOR: They objectify me when they call me a writer. I never was a writer and never shall be. I refuse to have the role of scribe in the world.
I hate it when they tell me to write or expect me to write. I once received an anonymous letter spiritually offering me a musical recital as long as I kept writing. The result: I stopped completely. Who orders me around — only I know.
ANGELA: I don’t write complicated. It’s smooth like a gentle sea with waves spreading out white and frigid: agnus-dei.
But does anyone hear me? So I cry out: mama, and I am a daughter and I am a mother. And I have in me the virus of cruel violence and sweetest love. My children: I love you with my poor body and my rich soul. And I swear to tell the truth and nothing but the truth. Entangled in terror. Amen.
In the performance of my obligations I put each thing in its proper place. That’s right: the performance of my obligations. To refer to the “discharge” of my obligations would suggest a brown and ugly wound on the leg of a beggar and we feel so guilty about the beggar’s wound and its filthy discharge and the beggar is us, the banished.
So delicate and trembling like picking up a station with the portable radio. Even new batteries sometimes refuse. And suddenly it comes in weak or too loud the blessed station I want, weightless as a mosquito. Has anyone ever talked about the dry and brief little noise that the match makes when the ember and orangish flame light up?
I’m waiting for the inspiration for me to live.
I like children so much, I’d love to publish a son named João!
AUTHOR: What this book is missing is a bang. A scandal. A prison. But there will be no prison, and the bang is an implosion.
Angela writes columns for the newspaper. Weekly columns, but she’s not satisfied. Columns are not literature, they’re subliterature. Other people might think they’re high quality but she considers them mediocre. What she would like is to write a novel but that’s impossible because she doesn’t have the stamina for it. Her short stories were rejected by the publishers, some of whom said that they were very far from reality. She’s going to try to write a story within the “reality” of others, but that would be debasing herself. She doesn’t know what to do. Meanwhile her current tapestry goes on: she weaves while her friends are talking. To occupy her hands, she weaves for hours and hours. In her first and only exhibition of tapestries. It seems she’s better at weaving than writing columns.
Book of Angela
ANGELA: “Ladies and gentlemen: I am afraid my subject is rather an exciting one and as I don’t like excitement, I shall approach it in a gentle, timid, roundabout way”
[MAX BEERBOHM]
“But I love excitement”
[ANGELA PRALINI]
“The only thing that interests me is whatever cannot be thought — whatever can be thought is too little for me”
[ANGELA PRALINI]
AUTHOR: I need to be careful. Angela already senses that she’s being driven by me. She must not detect my existence, almost as we can’t detect the existence of God.
Angela apparently wants to write a book studying things and objects and their aura. But I doubt she’s up to it. Her
Serious like a boy of 13. Serious like an open mouth singing. The annunciation.
How rude: making me wait.
Seeing is a miracle. How can you describe a pyramid? How can you describe a light turned on?
ANGELA: I’m so ashamed to write. Fortunately I don’t publish. When we speak to God we shouldn’t use words. The only way to make contact is by being alive and mute, like the needle of a wise and unconscious compass.
AUTHOR: They objectify me when they call me a writer. I never was a writer and never shall be. I refuse to have the role of scribe in the world.
I hate it when they tell me to write or expect me to write. I once received an anonymous letter spiritually offering me a musical recital as long as I kept writing. The result: I stopped completely. Who orders me around — only I know.
ANGELA: I don’t write complicated. It’s smooth like a gentle sea with waves spreading out white and frigid: agnus-dei.
But does anyone hear me? So I cry out: mama, and I am a daughter and I am a mother. And I have in me the virus of cruel violence and sweetest love. My children: I love you with my poor body and my rich soul. And I swear to tell the truth and nothing but the truth. Entangled in terror. Amen.
In the performance of my obligations I put each thing in its proper place. That’s right: the performance of my obligations. To refer to the “discharge” of my obligations would suggest a brown and ugly wound on the leg of a beggar and we feel so guilty about the beggar’s wound and its filthy discharge and the beggar is us, the banished.
So delicate and trembling like picking up a station with the portable radio. Even new batteries sometimes refuse. And suddenly it comes in weak or too loud the blessed station I want, weightless as a mosquito. Has anyone ever talked about the dry and brief little noise that the match makes when the ember and orangish flame light up?
I’m waiting for the inspiration for me to live.
I like children so much, I’d love to publish a son named João!
AUTHOR: What this book is missing is a bang. A scandal. A prison. But there will be no prison, and the bang is an implosion.
Angela writes columns for the newspaper. Weekly columns, but she’s not satisfied. Columns are not literature, they’re subliterature. Other people might think they’re high quality but she considers them mediocre. What she would like is to write a novel but that’s impossible because she doesn’t have the stamina for it. Her short stories were rejected by the publishers, some of whom said that they were very far from reality. She’s going to try to write a story within the “reality” of others, but that would be debasing herself. She doesn’t know what to do. Meanwhile her current tapestry goes on: she weaves while her friends are talking. To occupy her hands, she weaves for hours and hours. In her first and only exhibition of tapestries. It seems she’s better at weaving than writing columns.
Book of Angela
ANGELA: “Ladies and gentlemen: I am afraid my subject is rather an exciting one and as I don’t like excitement, I shall approach it in a gentle, timid, roundabout way”
[MAX BEERBOHM]
“But I love excitement”
[ANGELA PRALINI]
“The only thing that interests me is whatever cannot be thought — whatever can be thought is too little for me”
[ANGELA PRALINI]
AUTHOR: I need to be careful. Angela already senses that she’s being driven by me. She must not detect my existence, almost as we can’t detect the existence of God.
Angela apparently wants to write a book studying things and objects and their aura. But I doubt she’s up to it. Her
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