I suppose a voyage in writing is not a real one. Or it is as journey that must be recommenced each time you write. Every day was always the first day. 1+1, as was written on Domenico's walls in Nostalghia, always equalled 1.
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 wanted to be abandoned by what I wrote. Wanted it to look ahead of me, ranging out.
You have to fall to find writing, I think, the poet says. To fall from the world, certainly. From the satisfactions of life – its complacencies, to be sure, but also its goodnesses. But you have to fall from writing, too, that's the second phase. Writing must become nothing at all. A wrong turn, an accident – it must be as though you accidentally brushed the page with your pen; that you accidentally began to type.
Casually, happening of itself, there was writing. There it is, dropped from the sky.
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