No one wants to kill themselves. No one wants to run amok. No one wants to tear up the world. To uproot it. To negate it all. To say the great no, and that everything starts from a no.
No Bernhardism. No Beckettism. No Artaudism. No Durassianism. No Bachmanism. Nothing volcanic. Nothing catastrophic. Nothing apocalyptic. Nothing hateful. Nothing sky-zapped. Nothing lightning-rent. Nothing torn. Nothing shattered.
No need for a religious tonality. For a poetic tonality. No need to invoke the greater forces. Drives. Excesses and lacks. To what over- and under-shoots. To what burns above and below. To angels and devils. To gods and goddesses of all kinds.
No raving. No outbursts. No crying upwards. No staggering. No stumbling. No passions of thought.
No one’s mad anymore. All madness medicated. Monitored. Under control. All madness managed.
It’s all moderation. All manners. All politenesses. All manageable, steerable. All containable. Domesticated! Cattle-like! To be steered and controlled! To be culled if we are too many. With none of us noticing!
Who know nothing of the saving negation of literature. Of the saying no of literature.
No exodus literature. No way out writing. No escape prose. No vectors of dissent. No burning it all down. No self-strangulation. No Hatred capital H.
No gathering storms. No electric hum in the air. No rumbling of thunder. No wild lightning. No trembling of the earth.
Falling pillars. The Crumbling. The Ruination. The Collapse.
Work in Progress 