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.

Literature Professes To Be Important While At The Same Time Considering Itself An Object Of Doubt. It Confirms Itself As It Disparages Itself. It Seeks Itself: This Is More Than It Has A Right To Do, Because Literature May Be One Of Those Things Which Deserve To Be Found But Not To Be Sought.

A Story? No. No Stories, Never Again.

But My Silence Is Real. If I Hid It From You, You Would Find It Again A Little Farther On.

The Disaster Ruins Everything, All The While Leaving Everything Intact.