Brazil Is Where I Have To Be,

I Have Grown Weary Of Literature: Silence Alone Comforts Me. If I Continue To Write, It’s Because I Have Nothing More To Accomplish In This World Except To Wait For Death. Searching For The Word In Darkness. Any Little Success Invades Me And Puts Me In Full View Of Everyone. I Long To Wallow In The Mud. I Can Scarcely Control My Need For Self-abasement, My Craving For Licentiousness And Debauchery. Sin Tempts Me, Forbidden Pleasures Lure Me. I Want To Be Both Pig And Hen, Then Kill Them And Drink Their Blood.

Reality Prior To My Language Exists As An Unthinkable Thought. . . . Life Precedes Love, Bodily Matter Precedes The Body, And One Day In Its Turn Language Shall Have Preceded Possession Of Silence.

Do Not Mourn The Dead. They Know What They Are Doing.

My Life, The Most Truthful One, Is Unrecognizable, Extremely Interior, And There Is No Single Word That Gives It Meaning.

I Write And That Way Rid Myself Of Me And Then At Last I Can Rest.