For a long time I’ve thought about writing as a kind of sorcery.
Stories give us hints as to how they need to be written.
It seemed to me that a certain kind
of overt interest in writing caused
people not to take you seriously.
Why should an account of human life, which is,
after all, the most in teresting thing on earth, be
rendered in such uninteresting ways?
I can sometimes just be so thrilled by a turn of phrase.
Something happens to break down the integrity of the reader
and the text— what the text is, and what it isn’t, somehow
become undecidable.
For me it’s impor tant in the writing to convey a lifeworld
but also a world of thought and the possibility of new
thought, new concepts, new worlds that can open up.
What are the ethics of writing, of working
with the words of another, whether those
words are spoken or written?
In some weird way, the dead are an audience, always.
I hope at the end of this I’ll still want to write poetry.
A R C H I P E L A G O S , A V O YA G E I N W R I T I N G
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