Empty



More from Molloy --

All I know is what the words know, and the dead things, and that makes a handsome little sum, with a beginning, a middle and an end as in the well-built phrase and the long sonata of the dead. And truly it little matters what I say, this, that or any other thing. Saying is inventing. Wrong, very rightly wrong. You invent nothing, you think you are inventing, you think you are escaping, and all you do is stammer out your lesson, the remnants of a pensum one day got by heart and long forgotten, life without tears, as it is wept.


I keep moving from obligation to obligation, telling myself that there will be a break, that there will be some time to rest and recollect -- re-collect. There are so many other texts that I'd like to devote myself to, so many thoughts I'd like to see to some conclusion -- but instead I'm illness-befuddled and entirely preoccupied. There will yet be time.