From the moment that it could be, it already is a kind of writing. The fly’s writing could fill an entire page. The fly on the wall is writing there is much that it wrote in the light of the large room, refracted by the pond. One can think about it later (as I’m thinking about it now) because of something that might be life, for instance, or a solution to the life of the book, of the word, of shouts, silent screams, the silently terrible screams of everyone in the world.Īround us, everything is writing that’s what we must finally perceive. There is obviously something religious about this, but one doesn’t immediately experience it that way. One must read the book one has written alone, cloistered in that book. When one takes everything from oneself, an entire book, one necessarily enters a particular state of solitude that cannot be shared with anyone. Solitude always goes hand-in-hand with madness. At the time I lacked the words to express it because I was watching that death, the agony of that black and blue fly. And now I’m thinking that maybe it wasn’t because I had recounted that death so laughably. Michelle Porte went into hysterics when I told her the exact time the fly had died. One writes by watching a fly relinquish its life. The death of that fly has become this displacement of literature.
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