I have decided, if possible, no more diaries. I would have to try, every spontaneous urge, to make diaries, into even a tiny little short story. And if I only have one small portrait, would write a fragment; it would be better than another five hundred page diary. ….
So I prevent my urges, to act spontaneously (and, acting is for me!) and collect thoughts and spontaneous inspirations, which are only completely incidental as such, could only be catapulted out of their casualness, if i could make it, turn the intimacy into a neutral aesthetic: literature.
I've gotten to a point, where my narrative can no longer be fully covered by me.
But also: the current of inner movement lives on ….
Now if I keep quiet, then, because I know, how a thousand times more valuable a text would be for me, in retrospect, if I had labored around it literary.
But it's so much more fun, to follow the moment of inspiration.
I tell myself: I couldn't help it.
But now I can't do that anymore.
But only that: maybe.
The strange thing about writing without a book publication is; the work, which is in writing, life and time, that is in the written word, is like never really there!
Except, in that moment, in which the word is written down for the first time! The first sentence; This is: felt-life!
And now I understand again, why I don't like working on a text:
Because I have such a hunger for immediate life!
After expression and way out in immediate expression!
It's been a long time since I've had a large pint of beer! This only as a comparison!
This thing, gives, seems to have different aspects. But, and, I still think so:
for the cause, at least something would be gained for the cause, if I try as many times as possible from now on, to make diaries, would resist and instead …….
… Sometime …. picking out these crumbs that I haven't vomited out of my subconscious reservoir and processing them into a small literary text.
But the hurdle, to write at all, is a lot for me in this performance, much larger!
_______
Writing is and remains a form of disappearance in existence.
sentences, that follow sentences, race into oblivion.
I myself, as an author, I'm forgetting as I write, what I just wrote!
Imagine this confusion, when I try, to write a novel:
I'm faced with a form of perpetual disappearance!
I used to sometimes go to the huge book store down in the Hirschengraben.
The books were over two (or was it three?) floors distributed. Many room departments and angles. The owner of the Brocki kept coming, the old man, with new boxes, filled to the brim with books from an elevator from somewhere. He held the moving crate in one hand and the tower of books in the other….
He whistled or hummed softly, in other words: he was not an inconspicuous old man. But as soon as he crouched between his boxes at the little desk, on top of which was a small makeshift cash chest …. then he disappeared too …. his silvery hair vanished ….
There were windows on this floor, now I remember, in the middle, no. So the old man was surrounded by sentences, windowless surrounded by an invisible torrent of yesterday's writing. There were also books, which no one had ever browsed through. Books, that have already passed today, before it was yesterday.
At the bottom of the basement I was able to move a wall of books and got into a kind of furthest corner … there on the raw concrete wall were the Jeremias Gotthelf editions with the painted carvings of (?) lined up … heavy, beautiful books …. and inside this sound ….Alas, that tone!!!! instructive, preaching of piety, golden Sunday morning, glamorous, as if marked under hallucinations by accurately and laboriously applied language … Tales of a World, that took place here, they want that. three hundred years … as …..the girl in “Bone binder” hoisted the heavy wagon up the Nydeggstalden with the brooms …..
—–
A single word may already have to be chosen.
What is a whole sentence?!
sentences, that you string together! sentences, that become books!
And that inside! I mean with that:
it takes so many words for so little impermanence!