Weak Thoughts, Weak Desires: He Felt Their

The Journal Is Not Essentially A Confession, A Story About Oneself. It Is A Memorial. What Does The Writer Have To Remember? Himself, Who He Is When He Is Not Writing, When He Is Living His Daily Life, When He Is Alive And Real, And Not Dying And Without Truth.

What If What Has Been Said One Time Not Only Does Not Cease To Be Said But Always Recommences, And Not Only Recommences But Also Imposes Upon Us The Idea That Nothing Has Ever Truly Begun, Having From The Beginning Begun By Beginning Again.

My Being Subsists Only From A Supreme Point Of View Which Is Precisely Incompatible With My Point Of View. The Perspective In Which I Fade Away For My Eyes Restores Me As A Complete Image For The Unreal Eye To Which I Deny All Images. A Complete Image With Reference To A World Devoid Of Image Which Imagines Me In The Absence Of Any Imaginable Figure. The Being Of A Nonbeing Of Which I Am The Infinitely Small Negation Which It Instigates As Its Profound Harmony. In The Night Shall I Become The Universe?

A Writer Never Reads His Work. For Him, It Is The Unreadable, A Secret, And He Cannot Remain Face To Face With It. A Secret, Because He Is Separated From It.

The Disaster... Is What Escapes The Very Possibility Of Experience—it Is The Limit Of Writing. This Must Be Repeated: The Disaster De-scribes.