I don’t escape into writing, I write to escape from writing. I am what writing’s made of me, what I’ve let it make of me. I want to put an end to it, to the whole paltry and humiliating enterprise.
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I am looking for something. It looks for me too, through these words: it’s already here, calling me out of myself, out of writing. Meanwhile I write to ward it off, awaiting its arrival, biding my time in infinite detours.
— Frenet, Journal
