I enjoy using words. Or rather: I enjoy making words work. For me words are tangible bodies, visible sirens, sensualities

I enjoy using words. Or rather: I enjoy making words work. For me words are tangible bodies, visible sirens, sensualities made flesh. Perhaps because real sensuality has no interest for me whatsoever — not even in thoughts or dreams — desire has become transmuted into the part of me that creates verbal rhythms or hears them in other people’s speech. I tremble if I hear someone speak well. Certain pages in Fialho or in Chateaubriand make life tingle in my veins, make me quietly, tremulously mad with an unattainable pleasure already mine. Moreover, some pages by Vieira, in all the cold perfection of his syntactical engineering, make me shiver like a branch in the wind, in the passive delirium of something set in motion.

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