To say! To know how to say! To know how to exist via the written voice and the intellectual image! This is all that matters in life; the rest is men and women, imagined loves and factitious vanities, the wiles of our digestion and forgetfulness, people squirming β like worms when a rock is lifted β under the huge abstract boulder of the meaningless blue sky.
I know of no pleasure like that of books, yet I read very little. Books are the entryway to dreams, but people at ease in life donβt need such introductions to enter into conversation with dreams. I could never read a book and give myself over to it; always, with each step, the commentary of my intellect or my imagination interrupts the narrative sequence. After some minutes I am the one who writes and the writing is nowhere to be seen.