Born too late to see the war, too soon to forget it. Rocked by events which I didn’t experience.
Writing is this kind of not writing. Writing is the thing that makes writing impossible.
Why this past? Why is this past mine? A past which I did not even know?
And what if there were a machine for doing away with memory? That one would carry in an attaché case and plug in beside one’s bed at night? A machine to stifle the shoutings to which I have never given voice?
But how can an art in the name of the specific be the lingua franca of globalized art?