The greatest gifts are returned by influences, and sometimes beauty turns my attention by endeavor, where action is beyond praise and courage so increased beyond the true—as if the true were an arithmetic or fame and could increase.
I would add greatly to the beauty by those feeling conversant; but where to put it? With its indispensable side out, where nothing is greater, the laws of shadowy detail, to the smallest detail, even of the corpses of criminals held long in prison, as inhuman medicine, sketching the action from the insides of the bones and exploring what has been a mind, unknown. I am pressed with questions as if posed and feverish with a peculiar greed. Incessant knowledge and the natural sciences of difficulty, brilliance, complexity, and generosity, to please an entire face, where sorrow by the fact is not of true greatness. Work is retarded by such desire, which is anticipation of its certainty, and hence a desire impossible of satisfaction, in the future despite the grand decision to pull it present. It is that interest as lapse of time, that wanting to put too much in, is forgetting, or the forgotten calling attention. The whole has been given away and looking out is a forgetting sent without to end all the commoner.
The trees of street are laid down. A bedroom is cut where I went. Where I mean to will have to come to me. Though we keep company with cats and dogs, all thoughtful people are impatient, with a restlessness made inevitable by language.
Lyn Hejinian - Writing is an Aid to Memory