The night, the sea, the earth: you like to write with these expansive words – words which substitute themselves for a reserve which can only appear ‘beneath’ other words (under erasure). In the end it is as if every word you wrote took the place of an indeterminable word which could not have been written but writes nonetheless, writing as writing writes, writing within writing.
Within you, taking your place, writing with your own words: the idiot who writes not to communicate, to transmit a message, but to get lost in writing – to lose writing itself in writing, before it can find the other shore.
You write; you congratulate yourself because you were strong enough to receive writing, to write with it and not to obliterate it, to allow the idiot to write within you. Strength? But it is also weakness – a fatal susceptibility. But strength is necessary to endure weakness, to bear the theft of words. Let the idiot write – if you can bear it (do you have the strength?) Give him the words he can unwrite as you write them, erasing everything you write in advance.
Lars Iyer's Blog 