Tuesday, 3 March 2015
In the darkness was the beginning. In the beginning was wordlessness. I did not have the words. I sat in the library. Then I got up to look for a light-switch so that I might read. I did not find one.
I do not possess the book that one must possess if one is to live the right life. I do not have to hand the book discovered early, and returned to often. The book of comforts and reassurances. I do not know who or what to read.
I am not possessed by the book that should have possessed me. I have evaded its writing of my world. I live outside its domain. I do not know it. I am not known by it.
Then, who of the others has written for me? Which of them has written the words, that I may draw from them? Which of the named ones has prepared the ground that I may step on it? Blake? Pascal? Rousseau? No. No. No. Kierkegaard? No. Bataille? No. Debord? No.
Michaux? It is not enough. Walser? Not enough. Kafka? Not enough. Grossman? Not enough. Chekhov? Not enough. Platonov? Not enough. Tolstoy? Not enough.
I am lost and without reading. I am excluded from the text. I am abandoned to westerns and spy thrillers.
It was written that I should be found wanting before the Word. The Word shut me out before I could find it.
I found the words I did not want. I did not find the words for which I searched.
I will tear the world up from its roots to find the writing that shall be my world.
The struggle is for nothing other than for the return of the book to my life, which is the return of my life to its world.
For the Word. For its book. For my certainty.
O Book, I have wandered far from you. I was led astray. I am lost. I am without the Word. May I return now? Will you allow me my return to you?
I was looking for the Word. And It was there. It was not hidden from me. And I knew It was there. But I did not find It.
The Word was not written for those who seek It. But it was written for those who do not seek it.
It was written for my father. He did not seek it. It was written for my son. He does not seek it. It was not written for me and I do seek it.
It was not written. It is not written. It will not be written.