I can’t read Cixous without reading aloud, and I can’t read Cixous aloud without crying.

What do we want to draw?
What are we trying to grasp between the lines, in between the strokes, in the net that we’re weaving, that we throw, and the dagger blows?
Not the person, but the precious in that person, not the Virgin, not the child, but what is between them in this very moment, linking them — a secret, that which mysteriously renders those two unforgettable. I sense: it’s not divinity, it’s whim. That little grain of meanness which makes the little boy. Do you see?
It’s not a question of drawing the contours, but of what escapes the contours, the secret movement, the breaking, the torment, the unexpected.
The drawing wants to draw what is invisible to the naked eye. It’s very difficult. The effort to write is always beyond my strength. What you see here, these lines, these strokes, are rungs on the ladder of my writing, the steps which I have cut with my fingernails in my own wall, in order to hoist myself up above and beyond myself.
And drawing the ‘living of life’ (what else is there to want to draw?) — is maddening; it’s exactly what none knows how to draw, the quick of life. But it’s not impossible.
It’s something small, precise — I’m guessing — it must be red, it’s, I’m guessing, the fire speck — or the blood speck — it’s — I’m searching — the point which nails this drawing, this page, this verse, in our memory, the unforgettable stroke — the needle planted in the heart of eternity — I’m searching — a miniscule fatality, a point which hurts my heart and hurts the world’s heart, it’s not bigger than the red spider which continues on while Stavrogin thinks about the crime, thinks about the crime, and doesn’t repent …
(—I’m advancing, I’m approaching, be careful because if I see what it is, just as quickly I won’t see anymore—)

I can’t read Cixous without reading aloud, and I can’t read Cixous aloud without crying.

What do we want to draw?

What are we trying to grasp between the lines, in between the strokes, in the net that we’re weaving, that we throw, and the dagger blows?

Not the person, but the precious in that person, not the Virgin, not the child, but what is between them in this very moment, linking them — a secret, that which mysteriously renders those two unforgettable. I sense: it’s not divinity, it’s whim. That little grain of meanness which makes the little boy. Do you see?

It’s not a question of drawing the contours, but of what escapes the contours, the secret movement, the breaking, the torment, the unexpected.

The drawing wants to draw what is invisible to the naked eye. It’s very difficult. The effort to write is always beyond my strength. What you see here, these lines, these strokes, are rungs on the ladder of my writing, the steps which I have cut with my fingernails in my own wall, in order to hoist myself up above and beyond myself.

And drawing the ‘living of life’ (what else is there to want to draw?) — is maddening; it’s exactly what none knows how to draw, the quick of life. But it’s not impossible.

It’s something small, precise — I’m guessing — it must be red, it’s, I’m guessing, the fire speck — or the blood speck — it’s — I’m searching — the point which nails this drawing, this page, this verse, in our memory, the unforgettable stroke — the needle planted in the heart of eternity — I’m searching — a miniscule fatality, a point which hurts my heart and hurts the world’s heart, it’s not bigger than the red spider which continues on while Stavrogin thinks about the crime, thinks about the crime, and doesn’t repent …

(—I’m advancing, I’m approaching, be careful because if I see what it is, just as quickly I won’t see anymore—)

Notes

  1. index-rerum posted this