When Do Cervix Begin To Open Before Period

The sound of silence

Talking books? Make talking books? Or speaking from an interior invested, just talking to side, in the shadow of these books which we know how to talk sometimes ... But "talk" is of course an incorrect term. For it is to write it is. Nothing trivial, then. Write about what is written, not to make a speech, but to double, extend, test the resistance, trying to chip, bully lovingly those books that offer readings still evolving, as they themselves become (since we do not talk - sorry: since we write little about what is written without a body-to-hand with writing, these books "already" written before being drafted). Is it a matter of criticism? How far do we seek rather to abolish it? Not easy. A desire, evident to enjoy their dirty, to feel their bodies, drink their poison. The impression sometimes added at the discretion of the books a little burnt cream of our emotions, they hang to bumper pots probably unnecessary. But they, after all, who make us want to write, to write not so much on them than on the movement of writing their own volition sought. Here, read these lines salutary signed by writer Philip Annocque which, not later than Tuesday, questioned here on noise and silence "around" the literary thing, especially in the wake books concerned (In the sense, almost, "anxious") by reason poetic

"It is never difficult indeed to speak of a truly remarkable book, he must find words that do not exist yet and when we found them to realize that they have every chance of not being understood: how to make the reader feel something he has not felt it yet? But you must write his opinion anyway, the view is a rite which can not be set aside, we will write more on this other book because it's easier and it is not so bad, or one that is not worth much because we can easily tell why.

Sometimes I wonder if this noise around (the periphery) of the literature does not end with him being even more damaging - most misleading - that the silence that surrounds it in reality. "

can not be said better . But since we are committed so strongly to certain books, because sometimes they break the frozen sea within us, can we hope that their folly will argue, and inform our approach, our collision? their biases things succeed in guiding given our words? That their secession will make us allies, the Deleuzian sense the term?
J'ébaucherais have an answer, but alas I hear meowing tribe of cats that I have to beat them a chance to have nine lives. So we'll try again and again, fail better this disturbing but exhilarating praxis.

(Image: Caravaggio, The Doubt of Thomas. 1602-1603. Sansouci, Potsdam, Germany)