The story of my life doesn't exist. Does not exist.
There's never any center to it. No path, no line. There aré great spaces where you pretend there used to be someone, but it's not true, there was no one. The story of one small part of my youth I've already written, more or less-I mean, enough to give a glimpse of it Of this part, I mean, the part about the crossing of the river. What I'm doing now is both different and the same. Before, I spoke of clear periods, those on which the light fell. Now I'm talking about the hidden stretches of that same youth, of certain facts, feelings, events that I buried. I started to write in surroundings that drove me to reticence. Writing, for those people, was still something moral. Nowadays it often seems writing is nothing at all. Sometimes I realize that if writing isn't, all things, all contraries confounded, a quest for vanity and void, i's nothing. That if it's not, each time, all things confounded into one through some inexpressible essence, then writing is nothing but advertisement. But usually I have no opinion, I can see that all options are open now, that there seem to be no more barriers, that writing seems at a loss for somewhere to hide, to be written, to be read. That its basic unseemliness is no longer accepted. But at that point! stop thinking about it.
Hayatımın öyküsü yok. Yok.
Hiçbir zaman bir merkezi yok. Ne bir yol, ne bir çizgi. Eskiden birilerinin olduğunu varsaydığınız büyük boşluklar var, ama bu doğru değil, kimse yoktu. Gençliğimin küçük bir bölümünün hikayesini zaten yazdım, aşağı yukarı - yani, bir nebze de olsa bir fikir verecek kadar.
Bu kısımdan, yani nehrin geçilmesiyle ilgili kısımdan bahsediyorum. Şimdi yaptığım şey hem farklı hem de aynı. Daha önce, ışığın vurduğu, net dönemlerden