Most of the times it’s like making a deal with the devil. Or, maybe even worse, becoming a devil yourself, miming the act of creation which has already been done majestically by more brighter gods. And your work is never good, your inner editor keeps saying that. It’s like the words you use are never there, never at the center of the problem. Never the body itself, but an outline of the body, never life itself but the margins of that life. That’s where you need a deal with the devil, to help you cope with that, to help you cope with the inherent imperfection which occurs every time you give life to something through the medium of language. It’s like a devil’s doll made out of mud, it will work only for a few hours then fall back into the silence of lifeless bodies. And then there’s the urge to cut everything, to delete the life that has commenced with the first word you’ve written down. And then there’s the fight between you and the world that – once switched on – will claim it’s rightful place into existence. But the truth is, it’s not so much about using the right words, but rather about using all the wrong words, the more marginal vocabulary, the vilest and most obscure emotions, things which would make others throw up and, most importantly, think, see things, smell things, and face that life which so many things try to suppress it, eat it, digest it, making it more beautiful for the sake of the children. A man might deal more successfully with erectile dysfunctions in fiction than in reality. And it’s not about growing disgustingly long beards, and writing in the middle of the night when your neighbors are having the time of their lives while the children are sleeping, or masturbating, or throwing up while writing just because masturbating and throwing up might just add a pinch of surrealism to your writing, and, I think, it’s not about having sexual intercourse with as many ladies of the night as you can, as often as you can. Because, in writing, the effort is only yours, and everything else is just a procrastination of an ailment which sleeps undisturbed into your flesh. Writing is the indirect expression of that ailment, just like a pile of unwashed dishes is the indirect expression of a condition, namely that of (1) having to clean after doing something which is physically pleasurable, and (2) having to think about the benefits of an automatic dish washer, or of finding a partner that might just wash the dishes unconditionally. Writing is never pure body. Writing is always synthetic body and synthetic smell. That which you need in order to know that what you are is not just inert matter, but matter capable of creating desire and suffering when that desire is not satisfied.
Thank you for your last letter. I didn’t get it yet, but thank you anyway. I wonder. Why does it have to be like this? There are some laws, internal to the universe, which I simply cannot comprehend, let alone work/ function according to them. They say, one day, you’ll reach a point when everything will be clear. Yet I fear that day may come too late, at a point when I won’t be able to enjoy it. I do not wish to grow old and, a few seconds before I die, realize that everything has been in vain, and that everything stops there, in that realization, and that there is nothing else to look forward too. I couldn’t imagine a world without love, as I couldn’t imagine a world without beauty. So, I need to say this to you, dear friend. If you are indeed reading this and if you do have a sudden revelation while reading, don’t let that feeling go. You are special to me, and I wish you all the happiness the world could offer you. These words are not in vain. I know we pride ourselves with having one of the most sophisticated means of communication, language, but you need to know that words remain, and they will go deep, as deep as they can, and they will stay there for as long as our organic life shall permit. Words can fall in love, and you could fall in love with words too. They can seduce you, caress you, make love to you at night and before dawn. That is why I’m telling you this, dear friend, ’cause if they can love, they can also hate, they can also hurt you. But you already know these things, there’s no need for me to tell you that. I’m actually telling you this because I’ve tried it on my own skin. I fell in love with your words, and every night I pull those words to my chest as if they are alive. Yet, maybe they are. I’m sure they are. I need them to be alive. Otherwise, I couldn’t feel you as I do, breathing between the sheets.