I Think Tone Gives Birth To The

Life Keeps Being A Beautiful And Frustrating Experience.

Writing Is Very Castrating In The Moment. Fiction In General, It Has No Function, Nobody Asks For It.

My Mother, For Example, Told The German Officer Not To Kill Her. She'd Make It Worth His While. And Then, When They Were Doing It, She Pulled A Knife Out Of Her Belt And Sliced Open His Chest, Just Like She Used To Open Chicken Breasts To Stuff With Rice For The Sabbath Meal.

I've Always Had A Very Developed Superego. I Also Had A Very Powerful Id, But There Was No Ego In The Middle. So Writing Was Always Like Letters Sent From The Id To The Superego, Saying, "what's Going On Here?" What I Loved About Writing Was That I Was Totally Weightless. I Was Amazed At The Fact That I Could Be Myself Without Being Afraid That Anyone Would Get Hurt.

And She Loved A Man Who Was Made Out Of Nothing. A Few Hours Without Him And Right Away She’d Be Missing Him With Her Whole Body, Sitting In Her Office Surrounded By Polyethylene And Concrete And Thinking Of Him. And Every Time She’d Boil Water For Coffee In Her Ground-floor Office, She’d Let The Steam Cover Her Face, Imagining It Was Him Stroking Her Cheeks, Her Eyelids And She’d Wait For The Day To Be Over, So She Could Go To Her Apartment Building, Climb The Flight Of Stairs, Turn The Key In The Door, And Find Him Waiting For Her, Naked And Still Between The Sheets Of Her Empty Bed.