Necessary error, school mistress, faltering essential companion, we love her, because she is the only way we have on this earth to feel the truth, which is always a little farther, exists, a littler farther away.
And repentance? No repentance. We who draw are innocent. Our mistakes are leaps in the night. Error is not lie: it is approximation. Sign that we are on track.
And: to not become gloomy from not ‘attaining.’ We don’t lose anything by erring, to the contrary.
The unhappy thing would be to believe we had found.
As long as we are seeking we are innocent. We are in naive submission. In prenatality.
I advance error by error, with erring steps, by the force of error. It’s suffering, but it’s joy.
I seek the truth, I encounter error. How do I recognize error? It is obvious, like truth. Who tells me? My body. Truth gives us pleasure. It makes us burst out laughing, trembling. Blushing. It’s hot. It’s like this: I grope. I try the word ‘hesitation.’ I taste it. No pleasure. No taste. I cross out. I try: ‘correction.’ I taste. No. I taste ten words. Finally I fall on the word: ‘essay.’ Before even trying I already sense a pretaste … I taste. And, that’s it! Its taste is strong and fine and rich in memories of pleasure.
Truth strikes us. Opens our heart. Our lips. Error makes us sense the absence of taste. Drops us like a dead person, apathetic tongue, dry eyes. Error really can’t fool us.