I’m a scribble on a scribble, completely unsuitable for one of your books; forget it, Lenù, one doesn’t tell the story of an erasure.
“Things are told or not told: you remained in the middle.”
To write, you have to want something to survive you.
One can’t go on anymore, she said, electronics seems so clean and yet it dirties, dirties tremendously, and it obliges you to leave traces of yourself everywhere as if you were shitting and peeing on yourself continuously: I want to leave nothing, my favorite key is the one that deletes.
Unlike stories, real life, when it has passed, inclines toward obscurity, not clarity.