What I've been reading (re-reading) lately: Friendship by Blanchot. It's strange, but I don't remember reading the part where he talks about Kafka, about the "uninterrupted writing" as an "unapproachable space." This dream of writing, alone, for months at a time, that's my dream too. I dream about it, but do I really want it? No, I don't. Yes, I do. Kafka (I've read his diaries too and also completely forget them) talks about entering the isolation of writing, not like a hermit, but "as a dead man." The completion of his books are resolved "in and by interruption (under the spell of the fragmentary)."
I've long been quoting V. Woolf's: "...for interruptions there will always be." What writer hasn't resolved to write in and by interruption? Anything else would be mad. Yet, hovering around me, that dream, the dream of a span of time, uninterrupted. Maybe it's the dream I want, and what I need is to continue to fall 'under the spell of the fragmentary.' Let's hope. Meanwhile, the resolution to write as a dead woman, uninterruptable in my fragmentariness....
And the red typewriter? It somehow belongs to the book I'm writing, to the character I'm writing. It came painted red, by a previous owner.
Meanwhile, I've borrowed it. Photographed it. And even made it into a greeting card etc. which you could purchase here. (My ImageKind link is also on the sidebar).
And longing, LONGING, for this exhibit. Which is only up until end of January.
