.

"I loved myself so much along "with"
him that I could not answer loyally."

wrote Marguerite Porete.


And now, he's gone. If only
I could see this place as it is,
without me in it, its horizon
undisturbed by any beating
heart and no space left
for "I".

Perhaps my interpretation of Porete
fits Percy Shelley's notion of the literary
sublime; how to sacrifice easier pleasures
in favour of more difficult ones, ones that
get entangled in the psychology of watching
and listening, of being the kind of audience
who momentarily resides inside someone
else's creative imagination, glimpses the
core of someone who is not afraid to
plunge both hands into his own story,
to spend time exploring an interior
landscape. this inward glance, that,
like a critic, unveils the layers of his
own deep theories long enough to
see beyond them.

I loved myself so much along with him.

This.

And in Le Monde 2 on Dec. 9,
Antoine Artaud's sense
of the sublime.

I forbid
all &
everybody to
think any-
thing at all
about
me
given that
while alive
where I am
I live and
forbid myself to think




(Antoine Artaud, trans. Pierre Joris)

As for the day,
not a single coincidence.