Morning, but it is like night; the day ended before it began. What was I writing? I’ve forgotten. Something on tragedy? And what was I reading? Another badly translated Appelfeld? To fall below the level of writing, of reading, and to wonder: how was either ever possible?
I need a stronger book to live beside, I tell myself. Something like Sebald’s Vertigo to bear me through the days and nights. Event, non-event: how to separate, in me, day from night?
These poor translations! And my own poor writing! I need a stronger book, so that it can be certain for me, so it can dream inside me. So will I be hollowed out; so it will it become what I am not.
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