Chance

Pinget writes of the pain of being between novels: how to find a voice? He thrashes about – first this voice, then that, but where is the one that will impose itself upon him like a destiny? When will it come, the voice-seed of a new novel, that will lead him forward by itself through sentences and paragraps, and through page after page?

But when you have no novel, and have no intention of writing one? When you’ve fallen from all projects, all schemes of writing, and there is just the trying out of voices, first one and then another, but absent the voice that will give you your destiny as a writer? Only chance, and a swerving each time, and without pattern. No progress, no moving forward, but only the melee of voices, as they inhabit you, as they turn you from yourself and show that what you are is only this turning?