H nce thought to leave the notebook open on the table and each Once passed near him, writing something, for example, even as you read this now. Leave it as a mirror that was holding what our actions were tacking around, like a pile of notes to natural, evening, unconscious.
The fundamental condition is not paying attention, live as if one had never before written anything rescued from life as if what happened had belonged to a dream, knowing that the dreams will match everything and that this stretch and reconciles all too often with this and the future. An open notebook speculate between what happened and what happens, which will come and what he might have happened. Is not that, itself, memory, I wonder? before left by the wayside among a mountain of books and leave confused, as this life appears confusing subjects I write I do not even recognize. Increasingly
a man believes in the mystery of literature. Can a great connoisseur of the literary use a resource or another, may even know all the public rhetoric and even having read tens of thousands of books, but when you begin typing, you may never write what the literature calls. Never as an insurmountable wall, which condemns him to his true happiness. For the mystery is like a presence innate, instinctive, that the writer he models over the years and redirecting the force of his intelligence. It is fleeting, artificial, we may dwell for a moment and leave us forever.
margins are creating is not subjugated to any discipline, arriving given, such as talent, and come with a naturalness that, if not lived, left in artifice.
Is that what I notice in most books I read: the mystery is forced. Literature is a treacherous statement to the writer, because she tied the great mystery that has one. But this knot can be to own gallows. And the reader must be relentless in what aspires to be and I can not be.
For this reason, wanted to leave pages alone, I wanted to let hidden support that every day I hold the insomniac speech, but necessary, leave me alone to myself, let go of the device. The self is an artifice unnecessary.
The graphomania not be confused with the intensity and the intensity does not understand numbers, is a quality of soul. There are poets who want to use originality to stand out in the campus. Others want to imitate the most beloved poets. Neither one nor the other will find their being. The mystery is individual, absolutely alone, silent, perpetual rhythm and he alone decides who dares to start a poem. If there comes to us, that is, if we do not go out to meet us none of them will occur.
is exactly what he writes in Gaya Silence art: "A desperate art is a contradiction. [...] The art seems to come from afar, going through the man, then discard, get rid of man as a crust, and on. [...] A great work of art is never a conclusion, and promises to be a scientific or philosophical, but a principle that escapes, fleeing, which frees .[...] The operator does not aspire to the word , ie the art, the work, but the silence is clear that a living silence, a silence of life, not death, even dumb, but communicating. Art is not clothing, but bare. "
had left the open notebook on the table, but I decided to close, curtail their whiteness for staying in silence naked and communicating that every artist should belong.
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