Writing is this kind of not writing. Writing is the thing that makes writing impossible.
But how can an art in the name of the specific be the lingua franca of globalized art?
Born too late to see the war, too soon to forget it. Rocked by events which I didn’t experience.
Why this past? Why is this past mine? A past which I did not even know?
And what if there were a machine for doing away with memory? That one would carry in an attaché case and plug in beside one’s bed at night? A machine to stifle the shoutings to which I have never given voice?