This is the saddest story I have ever heard. .. This one, where the father falls, a heaving mass of stress dressed up as responsibility, weaving, teetering, with heart constricted, the voiceless scream and hand outstretched, he is groping the air. He spins on his toes. A badly balanced ballet dancer, he is a drunken dervish. A top wobbling in the death throes of its dance. There is a thud. One would not be surprised to see dust and smoke rising. One would not be surprised to see a fault open, a crack in the world that begins and ends with the winkles on his brow. Thud, and then behind it a gasp, perhaps the air escaping from a pillow, but he is struck dumb. Thud! And he falls crushing the baby.
"This journal is not a mere literary diversion. The further I progress, reducing to order what my past life suggests, and the more I persist in the rigor of composition--of the chapters, of the sentences, of the book itself--the more do I feel myself hardening in my will to utilize, for virtuous ends, my former hardships. I feel their power." --Jean Genet
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