Writing is a secret art; a hidden, coded practice, often carried out in darkness behind locked doors. The process of making writing is an invisible act. Paul Michel suggested this link between writing and homosexual desire.Fiction, he said, was beautiful, unauthentic, and useless, a profoundly unnatural art, designed purely for pleasure. He described the writing of fiction, telling stories, telling lies, as a strange obsession, a compulsive habit.
The magic is unleashed as Tam Lin writhes in the grip of the Fairy Queen’s power. He is translated into a lion, a bear, a serpent and a red-hot band of iron, a burning gleed! But Janet, alone at midnight on the crossroads, clings fast to the man she loves. ‘Again they’ll turn me in your arms To a red het gaud of airn; But hold me fast, and fear me not, I’ll do to you nae harm. And last they’ll turn me in your arms Into the burning gleed; Then throw me into well water, O throw me in wi speed. And then I’ll be your ain true-love, I’ll turn a naked knight; Then cover me wi your green mantle, And cover me out o’ sight.
Max fumbled for the prostitute’s genitals, alarmed at his own instant arousal, and without thinking, stepped into the shadowed doorway. A shiver of shock and pure, unambiguous desire flooded through his arse and legs as he clasped two swinging testicles and a hardening penis. The creature before him, both woman and man, looked up into his face, offering a challenging flash of gold, the lower lip pierced. Max’s hat slipped back and wedged between his head and the wall as he sucked the dark mouth and smooth cheeks. The prostitute flicked the un-smoked cigarette into the narrow channel of water, unbuttoned the client’s trousers with three swift tugs, then rubbed the engorged pink tip of his sex up to a groaning climax, as rapid as it was intense. Max’s mind clung to the last sane thought he had. I should walk on now.
Svi pisci su, na jedan ili drugi način, ludi. Jer mi ne vjerujemo u stabilnost stvarnosti. Mi znamo da se ona može raspasti kao komad stakla ili šoferšajba na autu. Ali mi također znamo da stvarnost može biti ponovo izmišljena, može joj se promijeniti redoslijed, može se izgraditi, ponovo napraviti. Pisanje je, samo po sebi, čin nasilja počinjenog protiv stvarnosti. Zar ne misliš i ti tako, petit? Mi to uradimo, ostavimo napisano, i iskrademo se neprimjetno...
The cats are asleep at the end of my bed and all around me, the thundery silence of L'Escarènere, caught at last in the rising flood of warm air, carrying the sand from the south. The Alps are folded above in the flickering light. And on the desk in the room beneath lies the writing which insists that the only escape is through the absolute destruction of everything you have ever known, loved, cared for, believed in, even the shell of yourself must be discarded with contempt; for freedom costs no less than everything, including your generosity, self-respect, integrity, tenderness - is that really what i wanted to say? It's what I have said. Worse still, I have pointed out the sheer creative joy of this ferocious destructiveness and the liberating wonder of violence. And these are dangerous messages for which I am no longer responsible.
All writers are, somewhere or other, mad. Not les grands fous, like Rimbaud, but mad, yes, mad. Because we do not believe in the stability of reality. We know that it can fragment, like a sheet of glass or a car's windscreen. but we also know that reality can be invented, reordered, constructed, remade. Writing is, in itself, an act of violence perpetrated against reality.