I will end this post with my favorite quote, by Thomas Bernhard, it was originally the epigraph to my manuscript Book of Mutter, I'm saving it for an epigraph to something, I don't know what. But I think more than anything is the impetus behind this blog, behind what I've tried to do on this blog, why I started it, why I continue with it after trying to quit from it constantly.
...the thousands and hundreds of thousands of words that we keep trotting out, recognizable in their revolting truth which is revolting falsehood, and inversely by their revolting falsehood which is revolting truth, in all languages, in all situations, the words that we don't hesitate to speak, to write and to remain silent about, that which speaks, words which are made of nothing and are worth nothing, as we know and we ignore, the words that we hang on to because we become crazed by impotence and made desperate by madness, words only infect and don't know, efface and deteriorate, cause shame, falsify, cripple, darken and obscure; in one's mouth and on paper they do violence through those who do violence to them;. both words and those who do them violence are shameless; the state of mind of words and of those who do them violence is impotent, happy, catastrophic.
Also also, kind friends: please don't comfort me. If you comfort me then I will be further sickened, because then I will realize I wrote this to be comforted, to be propped back up, and that will make me feel I have truly become this monster. I am luxuriating actually in this sickeningness. It is somehow an urgent state. Perhaps the problem is the desire for a balm, a bandage, a mirror. This is what I've sought in this blog. Is this what we seek for in readers? What is the relationship between a writer and her readers? A dialogue on this would be interesting. But please don't tell me I'm brilliant. Honestly. I know this sounds ridiculous. And mean. And egotistical. But at this point where I am right now this mood it comes off as empty. That word. It rings empty and false to me. I don't even know what it means anymore. What does it mean to write? I don't know. I don't think there's talent and no talent, brilliance and no brilliance, there is writing and there is urgency and obsession and that is all. Maybe sensitivity. What is the artist? Perhaps the artist is that strange hybrid of child and madman. But I do know if someone praises me right now to comfort me, to buoy me, it will be like touching me in the most tense and tender pressure point and I will scream and scream and then shatter into tiny tiny little pieces. If anything, discourage me. Tell me you too are revolted by me. I am in the most masochistic space right now. I desire bile, not sweetness. Heaviness not light. I don't want honey. I want flies.
Obviously I will have to take this down. This more than anything is taboo I know. Or it feels taboo. But since it feels completely wrong to post this, I feel I must post this. Actually most of my decisions about my writing go that way. If it feels completely wrong, I must do it. A strange choice perhaps for a writing teacher.