Saturday, March 14, 2009

Cleaving Niijuni Seiichi

Writing on the Wall
—for Haruki Murakami / Niikuni Seiichi

Translation is a kind of therapy for me, and the act of translating—nothing less than a spiritual rehabilitation—once I had finished the translation—I found myself wanting to write fiction again—it seemed to me that the very thing that could authenticate my existence was for me to go on living and writing—even if that meant that I would have to experience continued loss and loathing in the world—all I could do was go on living this way—this was me; this was my place—me; this was my place in the world—all I could do was go on living this way—this was what it meant that I would have to experience continued loss and loathing so I could authenticate my existence—it was for me to go on living and writing—even not wanting to write fiction again—it seemed to me that everything was translating itself—nothing less than a spiritual rehabilitation—once I had finished the translation—I found myself in a style of translation that was a kind of therapy for me—and the act of me, and the act of having finished the translation of myself—I found myself doing a kind of translation as a kind of therapy for me that was the very thing I was translating—nothing less than a physical rehabilitation—once I got into living and writing—even not wanting to ever write fiction again—my writing seemed to experience continued loss and loathing—it didn’t want to authenticate my existence—it was for itself and not me to go on living this way—this was it meant that it would have me; this was its place—in the world—all I could do was translate myself into it—all I could do was what it meant that it would possess me; this was my place—to authenticate its existence which was for me to go on living that way—this was if I wanted to write fiction again—it seemed to experience continued loss and loathing if I didn’t write fiction—anything else was less than a spiritual rehabilitation—once I got into Living Fiction and writing it—even the wanting is a kind of therapy for me that becomes the very thing that I was translating—nothing me, and the act of having finished the translation—I found myself in translation—inside the translation—I found myself translating the very thing that I was translating—nothing me, with the act of translation going on living and writing—even wanting became a kind of therapy for me—experiencing continued loss and loathing could be less than a spiritual or physical rehabilitation—once I got into living that way—this was what it was like to write fiction again—it seemed to be this was my place—to authenticate my existence was for me write into world—all I could do was that—it meant that I was writing to be me


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