Happy people have no stories. And happy bloggers? Do not hope for melancholy, if that’s what you think would allow you to write. Hope for the space of non-melancholy to open within melancholy, the surplus of strength from which writing is born. But that is not enough, for of what would you write? If you wrote the sentence, I am melancholic, no one would believe you, for how could the melancholic summon enough strength to write? Try: I was melancholic. But this isn’t interesting – and now it is besides the point. You are left with very little: a writing which is surprised at its own existence, which attempts to mark that surprise in the act of writing. You write: I write. Or: I have the strength to write. But what have you said?
Perhaps at the heart of writing (blogging) there is only the contentless affirmation of writing itself. But then it is an affirmation which breaks through the writing of reports, administration, bureaucracy. Remember that fragmentary writing begins, for Blanchot, when the whole is completed, when it appears everything has come to term. Perhaps fragmentary writing is only open to the servant of the whole, who believes in its inevitability and its justice. Thus Henri Sorge, protagonist of Blanchot’s The Most High: servant of the system from whose pen a writing is born which escapes the whole as the whole moves to completion (total bureaucracy).
Do you believe in the whole? In the order of which administration and bureaucracy would be part? The order to which melancholy is directed? Only to the extent that you are surprised by writing which is always the interruption of order.
Lars Iyer's Blog 