He sought an open form: spacious, diaphanous. Sought to lift the events of which he wrote, to lighten them so that no continuous narrative was possible. There must be blocks, breaks – white space. So that writing might breathe. So that the present might breathe, and then the past.
So he wrote every morning, as the morning separated itself from the night. What time was it? Any time, every time. What time was it? All hours crossed there; all of time was present there. Nothing began, but everything was gathered up for the beginning. Nothing began – and it was no dawn that he sought in writing, even as it began to dawn outside. Nothing began and nothing would begin; the page would be where the beginning failed, and the day was curled back upon itself, unable to dawn.
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