![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvhPYG2BxWp6A-vXKp9mRIJL8YK0r1cb0iphBM_Q460pLzdI6ttu6fH3WcyH8A5LSD_o-jGFz3Rt0pPBMIDLzA4p7WoEkDgpBSlVBENnco-1r3bXQxdnOctVcA8qH0XTkD7xml_YZ8nRCZ/s400/0.jpg)
A cricket? A critic? Taking advantage of the cats being too hot and flaked out this morning to bother, a moth called in at my desk. We discussed a dream I had at the weekend: I was writing a book, but the book I was writing in was printed on every page, and my writing was a continuous erasing, so that what I’d end up with would be a book of white pages. The moth mentioned Flaubert’s ambition to write a novel about nothing, composed of pure style. Or was this happiness writing, literally, white? The moth didn’t stay. But it was, I think, a learnèd moth.
1 comment:
how pale and nothing and beautiful
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