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Because I decided that here was where I should be alone, that I would be alone to write books. “One does not find solitude, one creates it. I have been imagining how I might decorate a space - a space for my characters, the cottage they live in and a space for me, where writing happens. I spent two hours yesterday Google Imaging “Shabby Chic.” Fell in love with this table, all of these settings, wanted to take a nap on this couch, wanted this to be my bedroom and this to be my dining room, and decided I wouldn’t mind this one bit. By the time of my first solitude, I had already discovered that what I had to do was write.” III. This real, corporeal solitude becomes the inviolable silence of writing. To begin with, one must ask oneself what the silence surrounding one is - with practically every step one takes in a house, at every moment of the day, in every kind of light, whether light from outside or from lamps lit in daytime. It is the solitude of the author, of writing. “The person who writes books must always be enveloped by a separation from others. I will shut the door and write another book. We’re just thinking aloud here, right? These are just words? Mythology of myself? And fairy tale, too, of course. A biography of how many women and of myself. Another retelling, but this time also a biography of women. Yesterday, while walking in the rain, I said aloud, over and over: and it was the rain on the leaves and the leaves falling soft on our wet bodies, and it was the rain on the leaves and the leaves falling soft on our wet bodies. It was also in Trouville that the name Yann Andrea Steiner appeared to me with unforgettable clarity. It was in Trouville that I ended the madness of becoming Lola Valerie Stein. I’ve always carried my writing with me wherever I go. “I preserved the solitude of those first books. Solitude - a particular focus of Duras’s “Writing”: The door, I know now after so many false starts, must shut tight. There is “possibility.” There is “nothing.” And there is also solitude. I am in that strange place familiar to many writers - that weird space in which one book has been written and published and the next has yet to come. I believe that the person who writes does not have any ideas for a book, that her hands are empty, her head is empty, and that all she knows of this adventure, this book, is dry, naked writing, without a future, without echo, distant, with only its elementary golden rules: spelling, meaning.” Before something like living, naked writing, like something terrible, terrible to overcome. To be without the slightest subject for a book, the slightest idea for a book, is to find yourself, once again, before a book. “Finding yourself in a hole, at the bottom of a hole, in almost total solitude, and discovering that only writing can save you. I think: Why do it? I think: Why do you - why do we - do it? II. I think: I don’t want it to leave me either. Marguerite Duras says: “Writing was the only thing that populated my life and made it magic. Before “Durasoff, Steve” and after “Duras, Claire Louise Rose Bonne de Coëtnempren de Kersaint de Durfort, duchesse de.” I know, right? Is this one? Hard to say but I guess yes. “What I’m trying to say isn’t easy, but I believe we can find our way here, comrades of the world.”
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“It’s the unknown one carries within oneself: writing is what is attained.
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“Even if it’s useless to cry, I still think we have to cry. Wikipedia says Duras battled with alcoholism. I think of her in these dark hours, craving: Milk like normal but also a spoonful of sugar. A sort of reversal of natural values by the writer.”ĭoritos for dinner. “As for myself, I’ve always experienced that time not as the moment when work ends, but when it begins. “All over the world, the end of light means the end of work. “In the cities, the villages, everywhere, writers are solitary people. “Dusk is the time when everyone around the writer stops working. I am listening to Soley, this song on repeat, thinking about solitude and loneliness, thinking about Friday night and Daylight Savings, how dark it is suddenly, thinking about Marguerite Duras and her essay, thinking about “Writing”: It’s naked, it’s made of ink, it’s the thing written, and it passes like nothing else passes in life, nothing more, except life itself.” Marguerite Duras’s essay, “Writing,” ends with: “Writing comes like the wind.