When you think, you have to write

That's when it becomes unbearable to talk to yourself...

There's no need to do it in any other case. It is useless, inconceivable, indecent, polluting in every way, a stupid inconsequence to do it in order to produce a word, to look pretty, to give oneself a capacity or to boast of having something to say. No, one has nothing to say except when it is sometimes necessary to break out of love verbiage. But that's not writing.

It is sacrificing to the administration of the intimate everyday, generating social, once again, under false pretexts. It is to advertise eternally unsatisfied and plaintive to say that one is too lonely, that one would be too lonely. No, one is never too alone to write. It takes the night, it takes the world that sleeps, it takes the power of material solitude to let out what is most alive in oneself: that ejaculate that concerns only oneself and lands on the thighs of others by chance.

Writing stops the flow of ideas and thus allows him to express himself outside. Yes, writing relieves the tension of the overflow of thought at the same time as it stops the bleeding, cauterizes the sense at a moment X, temporarily closes the still moist wound. The lips ooze a little; it's never quite clean, but it's better than nothing. First aid and makeshift healing until the next crisis. There is nothing to regret. Anyway, meditation isn't in my wheelhouse.

Only then, once the tension for a while has been released, it is permissible to "say". The soul works at rest, in concrete levitation. It rises. Second erection full of the sap of the intimate that follows the first one, solely for the spectacle of the self. We reassure the other that we are alive, present there, like a mirror whose tone soon fades in the light. Then here we are, as after sex when the diffuse pleasure continues to radiate in the brain and limbs.

A few minutes where we're not there for each other, finally.

Physical love is made to grant oneself those few moments of true solitude where one belongs only to oneself. So why do we seem to strive to make people believe otherwise?

What mannerism, what a fuss to tell each other that the link exists! The fulguracy of the impulses is only there to allow us to say "do me alone". Feeling of total wholeness of the being when all forces at the moment abandon it. Enjoyment, like creation, is comparable only to the exaltation produced by anger and powerful rage. And there at last, we cry out like wolves to the moon, packs of unrealized loners. Not enjoying the feeling of rage for itself, for here again, anger, no more than desire, has no real object other than to feel its passage through the body, through the body, through the organ of the voice, through the jolt of a cry that is finally hardly animal.

No, desire has no object, whether it is obscure or limpid; it has a purpose, like all primary impulses. Satisfaction of the relief of pain, quenching of thirst, satiation of hunger, relaxation of the sex, fainting of physical discomfort by expulsion of excrement, urine, excess of body fluids. Writing doesn't require more than that, otherwise it would be a laboriously obsessive scraping of the crust, beyond the needs that simple itching requires. Thus too many authors write a book when all they have to do is write a note. What are they not satisfied with inconveniencing their only circle of friends through epistolary exchanges or through a few simplistic posts on their networks?

Same observation in art. Diversity becomes entertainment. There is applause. We're content with it. It even seems to be enough. Beyond that, it would be too much. Spectators who support the slightest effort aren't always the ones you think they are. Fewer and fewer of the intellects who would have the taste for searching seem to do so. The consumer in us, all erudition combined, is the one who watches. "I am everywhere", he seems to say mischievously. Euphoria, quick joy, the feast of the senses, blissful contentment then also have no other purpose than themselves, but are so far removed from the great primitive appetite; low ambition, mediocre balm, sad topicality. Where is the excitement of the "difficult", the spice of the enigmatic, the richness of the unspeakable? It is my pittance; I want to see it, read it, eat it, produce it, turn it into a lantern and a bargaining chip. God, how great is the loneliness in our poor words too quickly dispensed! But this is not the right kind of solitude. As with mushrooms, when we know nothing about them, it is easy to make mistakes.

In shows and videos, the "nudity" is also exalted. Should I complain about it, I who have been carrying it in my heart and my gestures for more than twenty years?

Yeah, well. Bodies are running out of heads. Childish hedonism makes me yawn to get my original primate mandibles out of them.

They have just realized that they can touch each other's sex and anus in a big party of Love, when I've always liked it better, The camps of Amor. Similar to the seaside holidaymakers who seem to rediscover every year the renewed pleasure of their skin in contact with the sun and the waves that they had, it seems, curiously forgotten, the heroes of cultural life get carried away, pretending to ignore the accumulation of knowledge, the friction of antagonistic styles that sometimes, in us, make us creak. Everything is good, everything is beautiful that satisfies the frenzy of hunger. We jump from an exhibition to the theatre and from the theatre to the concert without worrying about "getting indigestion" from these light tapas. Goldfish memory or snail brain? I don't think so, of course. Just the laziness of the living who ignore or fear to assert themselves beyond a certain unavowable threshold of density. After all, why not, but the increase in the taste for well-being definitely makes one shudder with fear. In this case too, it is bad fear. All this "lives" too much and doesn't suffer enough from digging with bare hands to look for roots, even if it means scratching your fingers and gnawing your heart a little.

So Sade!

Come on, "French, one more effort..."