Reading Faulkner

I do not love writing.

I am not a writer who writes like a carpenter crafts or a footballer kicks

I am a writer who writes like a singer sings who sings for the sound that harmonizes with his bone until his sinew sings with him, for him, to him

I come to the animal, language, wanting to break it but it breaks me

I want to leave an impression on language so that words are colored by me, to breathe life into syllables and sounds so they are tied together and tied to me and they are mine

But I do not own it, nor do I subdue it temporarily

But I am bound to it and always under it like my jaw, I need it to crack open ideas with

So I write, not because I change it, but it changes me, and what I write is not mine but a synthesis, the child of the marriage between two unequals, and I seek that synthesis that satisfies, knowing – or hoping – that when I am most satisfied, it is most satisfied, when I have found that resonance that makes me tremble it trembles

There is no friction in writing, what sounds sounds forever

And he is only another who found his chord, that played against him and played against itself so perfectly that now it sounds and plays against me.

I write to be.

(edit: took out the line after “I want to leave an impression…”)