In my foolishness, it is of a kind of prose that I dream. Prose, writing, as it launched from itself, out of itself, like a magician’s string of scarves. From where did it come? From where, arising of itself, and according to what law? How to surprise writing in writing? How to let it arise, giving itself, and giving itself as giving?
Abandonment: I think that’s how writing arrives. I think it abandons itself to life, and gives itself as it is lost, and as it loses its writer. I want to be abandoned, and by writing, I tell myelf. I want that: to be abandoned, to be left behind by what I’ve written. A magician’s string of scarves; a dove conjured from nowhere: the miracle is abandonment, casualness, writing not minding itself, writing singing to itself like a lost child in the wood.
What kind of hunter are you?, says writing. What are you looking for? And I dream of a hunting that is also a becoming one with the hunted. A hunter who aims arrows at his own heart. A hunter who discovers himself as quarry. And by what bliss would you let the arrow pierce your own heart?
I think there is a self-abandonment necessary to writing. I think there is a kind of relinquishment. I want to be abandoned, and by myself, I tell myself. I want that: to be left behind by what I made, to let it go forward without me. To go forward – to search far ahead of me. To search far ahead, having lost me. How to lose myself, then? How, in writing, to forget that I am writing?
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