There’s a book which will never be published, one that’s being written intermittently. We all have such a book within us, writers or not. Myself, whenever I feel a loquacious wind of the ineffable blow through me like the announcement of my death—or more happily its postponement—I know it’s being written. A wind that carries angels who disguise themselves as fleeting thoughts, permanent intuitions or momentary sensations time forgot. They morph into words elusive as breath, which will not be tamed by publication and only barely by being spoken or thought of. Even to relate them to a book sounds absurd.
The real book of life does not lie between book covers and couldnt if it tried. Still, we write it daily. And convince ourselves it’s worth publishing, though we know only what-cant-be-spoken can publish it. Would you call that a book? Maybe it’s a circus—or a multi-media mirage in the desert. Maybe it’s a film that wont be filmed because existence is not celluloid. A film only those who watch it the right way—that is, according to its transitory nature—can catch glimpses of. No doubt they have to look quickly or have good imaginations . . . or else be hallucinating.
And if a book, one only for those to whom both pages and publication are laughable as success. Or as signs of eternity its author drops like a scented essential oil into the candle of time. By the light of that candle burned down to its wick, dripping its wax on our bones and dreams, we dimly see, smell and feel something of the contents of the book which, though it be bound in finest leather and grace the resurrected library of Alexandria, will never be published.