Reading Hélène Cixous’ The Book of Promethea has found me at a strange place. “Our history has a bumpy geography:” she writes. What history doesn’t? It is a book about love, but un-love. The not-love that is love. The pain of it all. “Because in love not all is love.” And the absolute fiery consuming beauty.
And then I read this and I am foolish and little and young; I know nothing of tragedy or pain.
This is a terrifying place, the world. There are so many breakable moments, so many crushing defeats. So much love beneath it all but how to find that vein… sometimes it seems I know, other-times it is impossibly distant and I am parched. (Cixous’ voice infects me. I mimic poorly, but I can’t approach her book without beginning to slip into it. My thoughts want to follow hers, trace the spaces between lines for some thread back to myself.) I am wandering.