...Strange Work That Unworks Itself, Leaving Nothing but the Attempt to Come to Itself Anew, to Begin...

The hex fell on me almost as soon as I set a course for myself; didn’t I understand there was to be no course here, and that to write was blindness, and what was written was written blindly? Not, here, the step by step movement that would beat the path to the work - not the slow accumulative advance whereby each day would let the work come to itself. Only rewriting - only the same said again, writing coming to itself and then dispersing as soon as it made its mark.

So what have I learnt since those days of ambition? The print-outs are put away and all thoughts of the work have fallen from me. I am like the figure in Munch’s painting, whose arms have fallen by his side. Nothing is to be done with this, this writing. Nothing can be made of it, this writing so weak it barely comes to itself.

The soul, after death, needs to be fed and looked after; it is search for the doorway to heaven - or hell, depending on its deeds in life. And in the meantime? It searches; it is vulnerable. Pity too this writing, which barely sets out on the journey only to disperse again. Strange gathering that is the beginning of dispersal; strange work that unworks itself, leaving nothing but the attempt to come to itself anew, to begin, to make a beginning, and then to lose hold of the beginning and fall back into nothingness.

Spurious