After five to ten minutes, a compelling force pushes him to sit down. He has to be there, in front of the machine. Writing text, keyboarding text, anything but lining up words. It is sometimes quite hurried. But often he is as if in a dream, a dream of liquors, inebriated to the point of a headache - as if he had breathed the powerful scent of a strong perfume for too long..
To write is to mend. It is a beautiful word, but it is also old. Today we don't mend anymore. We buy, we use, and we throw away.
But writing is mending, it is making something new with the same pool of words. Each uses his own weft, his own needle. But in the end it is the same activity, the same gesture that links all writers.
And then when the dream is over, when the words are there cooling on the page, it is almost a surprise. "Did I write this?" the writer asks himself. He had forgotten that he could write. It was enough for him, however, simply to forget the time. The time of an obviousness, the time of writing, which drives out the daily life - this cruel machine that makes amnesic and absent to ourselves.
By melting reality around him, by disappearing himself, the writer dissolves and forgets time. For writing is to overcome time, to lose oneself in order to better find oneself.
And always this nagging question: does a river novel return to its Source?
