And He was asking him, "What is your name?" And he said to Him, "My name is Multitude; for we are many."
«Of all that I read I love only that which is written with one’s own blood. That’s it: to write with our own blood, with our own spirits. Or, we could say, to find the place where resistance is no longer opposed to vulnerability, but where vulnerability becomes precisely our most important form of resistance.»
We have been trying, for too long, to find and create the type of writing we aim for; a way of constructing and sharing, even if we share it only amongst ourselves. We wanted to tell how it should be serious and profound; not that seriousness which, nowadays, is a major value in politics, nor the profundity of the righteous; rather, the seriousness with which the Dadaist erratically builds, the profundity of a woe. We wanted to say that it should be personal. Not according to the liberal interpretation of individuality, according to which the individual is a social atom; but personal in the sense that what we wrote could no longer be part of the scientistic dynamic by which we detach ourselves as subjects, to analyze our own lives as objects. Finally, we wanted to show how it would carry a certain commitment; but again, not that commitment which ideologically grounds the sense of duty at the root of the majority of contemporary social relations: rather, the commitment which is a direct effect of writing as if the blank page was made of living skin.
Finally, we found that Nietzsche’s aphorism echoed our thoughts:
Of all that I read I love only that which is written with one’s own blood.
That’s it: to write with our own blood, with our own spirits. Or, we could say, to find the place where resistance is no longer opposed to vulnerability, but where vulnerability becomes precisely our most important form of resistance.
We could say, then: we are searching for the vulnerable form of writing.
[We are used to sacrificing ourselves in each paragraph. Each footnote, each academic reference that searches for validation. Every connector waves the victory of logic over feeling.
But as one sacrifices herself to Knowledge, why would she think she will get anything in return other than the sacrifice itself?]