Yesterday I picked up a copy of my " Formicaio Baroque" and I began to leaf through it (do not sniff it before, but as I usually do with any other book). I must say that I do not ever re-read my stuff after I post. But not this time. This time something made me do it and I found it so, "parts" of me that I had no inkling. Do not even remember that I owned. Pieces of my flesh were detached as in another life. In life. They belonged now to the time frame of the page, outside of my own control, in my power. I felt like an empty shell. He was right Blanchot: Writing is like giving small advances to death, leaving behind a part of himself.
