Chapter 12 black lump

When people write, there seems to be some kind of instinct at work.Writing is like being in the dark.Writing can happen outside of me, in a kind of chaos of time: between writing and having written, setting out to write and should write, knowing and not knowing its apparent, full of meaning, submerged in it and reduced to meaninglessness in between.There is nothing dangerous about the image of the four dark squares in the world. It is not the transition from potential existence to actual existence as Aristotle said.It is not an expression.It does not involve transitioning from one state to another.It is about deciphering what is already there and what you have accomplished in the sleep of your life, without your knowledge, through its organic filter.Not "empathy" either, which has nothing to do with it.The instinct I'm talking about may belong to the reading of writing what was previously unreadable to others.I can put it another way, I said: reading your own writing is the initial state of writing before you can interpret it for others.It may also be a case of descending, condescending to their writing, allowing it to be read by them after it is written.It can also be said in another way, expressed in other words, and the situation is the same.Between life and death to which you belong, people are faced with a great mass of chaos.I often feel that I have been and will be in a confrontation between two situations in my current position.Being in the middle, I lifted out of it, transferred out of it the great mass of chaos that was already there.Should I break it, that's a big question.It also requires flexibility and tact.Actions are even more nimble and quicker than yours, and in this respect if you haven't written by hand and are always at the height of your thoughts, you will always face the threat of dissolution, disintegrating in the emptiness of the upcoming narrative, It will not be implemented at the level of writing, and if it is written hard, it will also refuse to accept it.Sometimes, when writing about the emotional side, it will be so depressed that it will be lost, or, in the popular writing that may constitute a book, I will find a way to express myself.Between the two states, however, there are perhaps many thankfully in-between states.In this way, it is undoubtedly possible to obtain gratifying gains.In the process of writing, I have a sense of discovery.All of that existed before me, and before all of that, it also existed there. I think that is another situation, and that is what belongs to me and belongs to me.All of that is thus transformed into writing with a fluidity reminiscent of drunken words that always feel clear and simple to you.That's pretty much the case.Then, suddenly, resistance appears.It is as if you are wearing a steel helmet and iron armor, and you cannot pass from yourself to yourself, and from yourself to others.It is a pathetic refusal to say and write about what I know, to let you write, to write, as if it were impossible.Ten minutes later, the two words meet in the text, and everything flows again.

Writing is not telling a story.It is the opposite of telling a story.is to describe everything at the same time.It's the nothingness that tells a story and tells the story at the same time.It's about telling a story that unfolds because of its absence.Loel V. Stein ① is by S.A dance at Tara is ruined.Noel V. Stein precisely because of S.Tara was formed at a ball. ①The protagonist in the novel "The Madness of Noel V. Stein" (1964). The Madness of Noel Lee Stein is a book of a different kind.A unique book.Only this book draws a dividing line between certain reader-authors who are involved in the madness of Noel V. Stein, and the general reader of this book.

I also make a distinction between what I have said and repeated and what I have not said.I thought this book belonged to the category already stated: namely, s.Tara gave a ball, and Loel V. Stein was so outraged at seeing her fiancé with such an unknown woman in black that the pain was forgotten.She felt no pain at being thrown aside, betrayed.It was because the pain was hidden that she later fell into madness.It seems possible to put it another way and say: her fiancé is for another woman, she fully understands, completes understanding, however, she has intervened in a choice, that is, made a choice against herself, and due to this fact, she has lost her reason .It is a kind of forgetting.This phenomenon also occurs during the freezing period in winter.Water turns to ice at zero degrees, but sometimes, this kind of situation also occurs. In severe cold, the air is still, and the water forgets to freeze.Water can freeze into ice at minus five degrees.

What I don't say is that the women I write about in all my books, no matter how old they are, have a source that is not Laure V. Stein.That is to say, they all have a kind of forgetting about themselves.They all have bright eyes.Neither of them is prudent and lacks foresight.None of them did not cause pain and misfortune in life to themselves.They are all timid.They are all afraid of the street, and they don't expect happiness to come to them.All these women in the ranks of women written in the books and films, from The Women of the Ganges to the finalized version of Loel V. Stein, the manuscript I have lost, are alike.Why do I think of my handwritten manuscript here?I have no idea.Rather, it was because of one of the many hallucinations I had had during alcohol treatment.

①The film script published by the author in 1973. The incident happened in the city.The big hotel was brightly lit, and the same ball was still going on, as if the ball had lasted for twenty years and never stopped.Yes, I think so.It is S．The reenactment of that ball at Tara was only on that level of drama.There, one does not move one step forward in the recognition of Loel Va Stein, and all of this has come to an end, is over.Loel V. Stein was dying too.She no longer pesters me, bothers me.I have killed her, I killed her so that she would not come to the street and sleep in front of my house, I wrote in the book that I always lie on the beach by the sea and sleep, in the wind, in the cold In, wait: this is the last time I see her.People are admiring her madness.Now that she is old, she was carried out of the big hotel on a chair carried by someone, and she has become a Chinese woman.The chair was carried by four men on their shoulders, like a coffin.Loel V. Stein is heavily dressed and colorfully painted.She doesn't know what happened to her.She looked at the people, she looked at the city, her hair was dyed, it was thickly painted like an old whore, she was ruined, people might say, she was ruined from birth.She became the most beautiful sentence in my life: "Here, up to the river, is S. Tara, and across the river, it's S. Tara."

Tara was the name that was called that summer night by the foreign youth with blue eyes and black hair on the top floor of the Rock Hotel. A few days ago, a friend of mine came back from Rio de Janeiro and said to me, "Think about it, our book, Lol wa Stein, is so hard to read, and when I get off the plane, it's in the window of the airport bookstore , the first thing I saw were the glittering letters, O Deshmbrameo 5°Edicao" Noel V Stein. crazy woman. She is in S.It was destined to be that way at the ball at Tara.She stayed there, still the same.The dance party is expanding.With her as the center, many concentric circles are formed, and the circles are still gradually expanding.Now such a dance, and the sound of such a dance, has extended to New York.Now, Noel V. Stein, she's the number one character in all my books.This is very peculiar.My little madman.It is she who "sells" the best.