Sunday, 26 July 2009

The Inevitable Life and Death of Writing

'"Care had been taken to spread the most sinister rumours..."
I had thought out this sentence, at first it had been a small part of myself. Now it was inscribed on the paper, it took sides against me. I didn't recognize it anymore. I couldn't conceive it again. It was there, in front of me; in vain for me to trace some sign of its origin. Anyone could have written it. But I... I wasn't sure I wrote it. The letters glistened no longer, they were dry. That had disappeared too; nothing was left but their ephemeral spark.'
Nausea, Jean-Paul Sartre (translated by Lloyd Alexander)

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