with this story i'm going to sensitize myself, and i am well aware that each day is a day stolen from death. i am not an intellectual, i write with my body. and what i write is a moist fog. words are sounds transfused with unequal shadows that intersect, stalactites, lace, transfigured organ music. i hardly dare shout out words at this vibrant and rich, morbid and dark web which has its countertone in the thick bass of pain. allegro con brio. [...] i swear this book is made without words. it is a mute photograph. this book is silence. this book is a question.
the action of this story will end up with my transfiguration into somebody else and my materialization finally as an object. yes, and it might even reach the sweet flute around which i will entwine myself like a supple liana.
from The Hour of the Star - [solid sans all the self-referential/ars poetic gestures, which i cannot/can barely handle]