Once we name something, you said, we can never see it the same way again. We argued and argued on this account, full of fever, not malice. Not only not good enough, but corrosive to all that is good, all that is real, all that is flow.
But I’m trying to say something different now.īefore long I learned that you had spent a lifetime equally devoted to the conviction that words are not good enough. Because nothing you say can fuck up the space for God. In this way you can have your empty church with a dirt floor swept clean of dirt and your spectacular stained glass gleaming by the cathedral rafters, both. It is idle to fault a net for having holes, my encyclopaedia notes. Nor does it ham it up by miming a constricted throat: Lo, what I would say, were words good enough. Words are good enough. It doesn’t punish what can be said for what, by definition, it cannot be. Its paradox is, quite literally, why I write, or how I feel able to keep writing.įor it doesn’t feed or exalt any angst one may feel about the incapacity to express, in words, that which eludes them. This idea gets less air time than his more reverential Whereof one cannot speak thereof one must be silent, but it is, I think, the deeper idea. Does it get any better? What’s your pleasure? you asked, then stuck around for an answer.īefore we met, I had spent a lifetime devoted to Wittgenstein’s idea that the inexpressible is contained – inexpressibly! – in the expressed. You had Molloy by your bedside and a stack of cocks in a shadowy unused shower stall. Instead the words I love you come tumbling out of my mouth in an incantation the first time you fuck me in the ass, my face smashed against the cement floor of your dank and charming bachelor pad.
A friend and I risk the widowmakers by having lunch outside, during which she suggests I tattoo the words HARD TO GET across my knuckles, as a reminder of this pose’s possible fruits. The Santa Ana winds are shredding the bark off the eucalyptus trees in long white stripes.
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