Melancholy Is Sadness That Has Taken On

My Working Method Has More Often Than Not Involved The Subtraction Of Weight. I Have Tried To Remove Weight, Sometimes From People, Sometimes From Heavenly Bodies, Sometimes From Cities; Above All I Have Tried To Remove Weight From The Structure Of Stories And From Language. . . . Maybe I Was Only Then Becoming Aware Of The Weight, The Inertia, The Opacity Of The World--qualities That Stick To The Writing From The Start, Unless One Finds Some Way Of Evading Them.

The Word Connects The Visible Trace With The Invisible Thing, The Absent Thing, The Thing That Is Desired Or Feared, Like A Frail Emergency Bridge Flung Over An Abyss.

It Is Only Through The Confining Act Of Writing That The Immensity Of The Nonwritten Becomes Legible

…we Can Not Love Or Think Except In Fragments Of Time Each Of Which Goes Along Its Own Trajectory And Immediately Disappears.

The People Who Move Through The Streets Are All Strangers. At Each Encounter, They Imagine A Thousand Things About One Another; Meetings Which Could Take Place Between Them, Conversations, Surprises, Caresses, Bites. But No One Greets Anyone; Eyes Lock For A Second, Then Dart Away, Seeking Other Eyes, Never Stopping...something Runs Among Them, An Exchange Of Glances Like Lines That Connect One Figure With Another And Draw Arrows, Stars, Triangles, Until All Combinations Are Used Up In A Moment, And Other Characters Come On To The Scene.