Books about books: you moan about them, don’t you? Books about books – not books, but books about books – that’s where you think the problem is’ don’t you? Books about books – and not books, that’s the problem, for you, isn’t it? Not enough – books. Too many – books about books.
Well then, are you going to write a book? Are you going to write a book that is not a book about books? What are you going to do about them, these books about books? Are you going to write a book – a real book – of your own? Because everyone’s writing books about books, that’s what you tell yourself, isn’t it? Books about books, and not a single book, you whine. Books about books about books, Byzantism and Alexandrianism, the long decline, you whine. Books about books but no books, you whine.
So what are you going to do about it? Are you going to write a book that is not a book about books? Are you – a book and not a book about books? Is that what you’re going to do? Is it? I’ve never heard anyone say, I want to grow up to be a critic, said Richard Pryor. You don’t want to be a critic, do you? You don’t want to be a writer who writes at one remove, do you? You want to be a primary author, don’t you? You’ve bought the myth, haven’t you? You want to write your own books in your own name, don’t you? That’s what you’re dreaming of, isn’t it?
A book. Under your own name. Not a book about books, but a book. In your own name. A book on its own two feet. A book alone, and that is not about other books. A book! And not a book about books! That’s what you want, isn’t it: to write a book! No longer writing at one remove, but a book! On its own two feet: the book! That will not even require your signature! That will dismiss you as soon as it is written! A book, all by itself, with no need for you, that’s what you want, isn’t it? To be refused by the book you made! To be given back to yourself by the book! To feel your own book slam the door in your face! To be dismissed by your own book!
Not a book about books, not a commentary-book or an introductory-book, but a book unto itself, a book on two feet, a book that raises itself out of nothing and hangs there in the void. The book like a star contracted upon itself. The book like the star that burns only itself, remote and distant. The book that does not need you. Pinnochio who does not want you to be his father. The golem who no longer obeys your commands. There it goes, the Frankenstein book, sufficient unto itself. There it goes, cleverer than you and better than you, the book that is sufficient unto itself.
Better than you, cleverer than you, surprassing you in everything: your book that is no longer your book. The book which says: I don’t need you and disappears. The book which has already gone off on its own adventures, that’s what you want, isn’t it? To be dismissed. To be expelled by something you wrought. To create what finds you imperfect. To create what is more perfect than you. To be dismissed by it, its perfection. To be cast out into contingency and flux. To be exiled by the book, which is paradise. To be expelled, sent out by the paradise of the book, that’s what you want.
To make something you could not make. To write beyond your abilities. To make – the book. And not a book about books. The book – on two legs, its own two legs, running through the forest like Baba Yaga’s hut. The book – appearing and disappearing like Doctor Who’s Tardis. The book – not a book about books, but a real book. Not a fabrication, but something real. Not dead, but alive – a living book that leaps up and runs about. A living book, a living flame, a star which consumes only itself.
And you, who will you be, cast into the outer darkness? Who will you be, measured by your book? Like a miserable father whose child surpasses him. Like a miserable ancestor of a glorious forebear, dismissed, cast out. That’s what you want, isn’t it – to cast yourself out. That’s what you want: to dismiss yourself. To say, get out! Leave! We don’t want you here! To say it to yourself through the book! To hear it from the lips of the book! To hear the book say, get out! we don’t need you here! and for the book to turn its shoulder to you. For the book to turn its great back to you.
You are not Fay Wray to the book’s Kong. You are not Naomi Watts to the King of the jungle. The book does not want you; it wll not seek you. It closes itself to you. It will lie in your hands, closed and inert. There it is, in your hands, dreaming of who knows what. There it is, the book, but elsewhere the book is already adventuring. Here it is, sent by the publishers, the book – but it’s already having adventures of its own. Adventures – away from you, dismissing you. That’s what you’d write, isn’t it – the book, and not a book about books.
That’s what you’re aiming for, isn’t it? That’s what will justify your life, isn’t it? The misery and stupidity of your life. The pointlessness of your life – that’s what will justify it, isn’t it? That it’s going nowhere, that it was botched, that it missed all the marks – that’s what will redeem it, won’t it? You remember what Zarathustra said about redemption don’t you? It’s to will your own past – to have willed that you lived as you lived. That’s what you want by way of the book, isn’t it? To expunge all the misery and failure, isn’t it? To wipe it clean, the mess of a life – to remove the stain of your life.
For that’s what your life is, isn’t it – a stain. You’ve left a stain instead of a life. A stain – and not a legacy. And so you dream the book will be your legacy. And so the book becomes the dreamt-of-legacy, the anti-stain, the wiping away of stains and smears and scum. So the book will justify and redeem the misery of your life. So you can say: I willed it thus, my life. So it can be said: I willed it thus, willed that it happened thus, my life.
You will say: so was my life justified and redeemed. So did it make sense – through the book. Through the book which was not a book about books, but a book. Through the clean gesture of the book. Through the knife stroke of the book. Through the sword of judgement that comes down as the book. Redeem me, book! Redeem my life, book! Let me say: I willed it thus, all of my life. Let me say, as I cross the bridge: it was worth it, and let it come again, my life. Let me say: let it come again, all of it, the whole cosmos – let it come again, one more time, I will it thus. That’s what you want, isn’t it?
Because what would your life be worth otherwise? What will it have been worth? Because what else will your life have been but the attempt to write the book? Mishima got it wrong, didn’t he – trying to redeem a life outside of the book – to redeem writing by a violent act. Isn’t it that the act, too, must belong to the book? Mishima’s ritual suicide lies outside of his book, and is therefore unredeemed. His death, his hostage-taking of the army general, his doomed speech to the troops lies outside the book, and means nothing. You will not die, you who the book will give birth like a son? You will not die, you who are reborn as the book gives birth to itself, father to the matrix that will bear you.
I will be the son of my book, that’s what you tell yourself, isn’t it? I will be the father of my book, which will give birth to me as to its son, that’s what you hope for, isn’t it? Whisper it: I will be alive and dead by the book. Whisper it: I will live in death by the birth of my book.
Lars Iyer's Blog 