The pieces of idea and context, of interpretation lay shattered on the table. The letters connote sound. The sounds connote meanings. The meanings are clouds caught in mirrors, intangible and evolving. That is context. Words are amorphous and tortured creatures, aliens, monsters. They visit me, a night's apparitions; and I am uncertain what I have seen, what I have heard. Strung together, they are the rusted barbed wire that keeps out the ideas that frighten me. I pretend that they articulate the shape and size of my mind. But they do not "make sense" of the world...
"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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