Much as I am sympathetic to the theory of écriture, I find it—confusing. For why is it meaningless to write with no other function than to assuage fear? Doesn’t that function in itself have a meaning? And why fear the dismantling of language’s semantic function, its being representational of meaning, when that is but one more fear that will drive those in opposition to écriture to write? And certainly this “theory” is no theory at all but a centuries-old practice: “He seemed to be depressed, for he went on writing” reads a twelfth-century Japanese text. Or take Rilke: “I have taken action against fear. I sat up the whole night and wrote; and now I am as thoroughly tired as after a long walk in the fields at Ulsgaard.” Even a bitter poem is a small act of affirmation, and I wonder if we can’t say the same thing about a meaningless poem (if such a thing exists). But Miłosz, who would most certainly disagree, is, to his immortal credit, a knight of faith, and I am but a knight of resignation.

I write for pleasure.  I am not aware of fear playing a part.

This morning I lay in a warm bed in a cool room.  Comfortable I dawdled between sleeping and waking, but was drawn out of a pleasant sleep by the prospect of even more pleasant writing.

I walked beneath the stars, up the hill to where I write.

I read a meditation on Saint Matthew (today is his feast day) and from the book of Job: "'Truly, the fear of the Lord, that is wisdom; and to depart from evil is understanding."  I drink my coffee.

I thank God, I praise the Lord, I do not fear.  Perhaps I should.  Surely I would if suddenly He descended in  a flaming chariot.  But this morning God seems more forgiving mother than frightening father.