To follow on from my previous blog entry:
Derrida says: To write is not only to know that through writing, through the extremities of style, the best will not necessarily transpire, as Leibniz thought it did in divine creation, nor will the transition to what transpires always be willful, nor will that which is noted down always infinitely express the universe, resembling and reassembling it. It is also to be incapable of making meaning absolutely preced writing: it is thus to lower meaning while simultaneously elevate inscription. ...To write is to know that what has not yet been produced within literality has no other dwelling place, does not await us as prescription in some topos ouranios, or some divine understanding. Meaning must wait to be written in order to inhabit itself..."
If writing is more meaningful than meaning itself, if inscription becomes the elevated principle in the ontological act of writing, if I must write in order to know what I write and hence, why I write, wherefore is the need in me to pull back, to retreat from words, to retreat into solitude.
When orpheus descends in search of Eurydice, he descends into this ontology of writing, of being, when he re-emerges from the depths of hades, he knows there is only the turning away, but he cannot resist looking back into the night of writing.
If writing precedes meaning, just as sound precedes light, our inscriptions upon the skin of the everyday already hold the essences of being.
But my turning away from words is a turning away from its inability to express, truly express, and yet I seek them out, forever questioning, forever interrogating them. To escape, perhaps, but escape what? The silence? The quiet space of death? And yet, it is precisely that which i crave.
So, when I blog, when i think to myself, "I shall blog," when I poise my fingers above the keyboard and think, what shall i write?, I pour myself into the virtual abyss, the night that Orpheus sought.
I still have no clue why i began this.