from “Waxing,” by Róbert Gál
Always a certain reticence toward the coherence of lines. Point-like flashes.
“That’s my game,” I say. “That’s my game,” they say. And so on.
To enter the world like the penis enters the crotch.
Absorbed by one goodness that immediately assimilates all the good.
To strip the truth of its rights, to use it as an argument (which is not mine, yours, and so on).
A virgin wound.
First to ironize sorrow, and then—when we see how it works—continue by ironizing joy.
What depth does the darkness have?
When I don’t feel resistance I don’t feel anything at all.
Literature is the hardest thing I’m able to do.
To understand life always against its course.
Favoring one system of paradoxes over another.
To reduce the body to one core sense and wait for other senses to join it.
Investigative manipulation.
Intelligence as a manual of untruths.
To land on one’s own feet.
And to raise above what we generated.
The years of youth: thoughts freed of the body and politeness.
Can anxiety be the cause of life? If so, what kind?
Congealing rocks, a restrained flow of the expressed.
Pockets empty of cigarettes I no longer need. Just like everything else.
I believe in the future, for there is no other.
Death as something that must be postponed and the death we are part of and with which we learn to live ever since we’re born.
Something as intimate as the language. And they dare to reproach your grammar.
One must smile at luck.
During the day searching for a way inward and at night a way out. And vice versa.
And every thanks as an impulse to reevaluate thankworthiness.
One cannot believe concluded opinion without delusion.
To support a cripple in his handicap perhaps means to cripple him twice.
To search for exceptions, yet not confirmations of the rule, but for the possibility of their critical mass.
And people fall as enemies.
The past that repeats is proof we did not yet grow enough for what is to come.
It is not a word game but a new way of narativeness.
A lifemotif.
I seek slowness and find only slowing. The world, despite all retouching. The art of infertility.
To know how to write or to know how to structure a sentence?
A self-propelled despair.
Who hasn’t settled yet has nothing to export. When we settle, we can also import.
Incomplete children left behind.
To what degree can others leave us even in that which is “our personal”?
Empathizing in isolation.
A solid structure of the expressed leads to the point in which one truth can predict another.
A story re-told into the logic of tautology.
The fragility of the real, the unbreakability of an expression. The unbreakability of the real, the fragility of an expression.
An aphorism is the author’s form of training in taciturnity.
