For the first time since last winter, I think, I return to these remarks and wonder whether to publish this weblog. A friend laughed, in February, when I told him about my private weblog, closed for the world: it doesn't make sense. Maybe that's precisely why I liked the idea of keeping it strictly personal. Strictly nonsensical.
But now I'm having second thoughts. I knew I would, some day. I don't know which is more narcissistic: publishing something that resembles a journal intime or being its only reader.
Cultivation implies extirpation, and therefore I will not feel overly guilty for not being overly honest. I will keep editing the posts, in case I decide to publish them. Them, these: all the pronouns and verb tenses are subjected to the dialectics of sense-certainty. Writing is a game, even when deadly serious.
I will be taking extraordinary liberties. By saying "extraordinary" I am not bragging, but it means that I would not take such liberties if I was writing an academic text.
At the same time, such finger exercises ("you cannot write with your hands folded") are not meant to be inferior to the more "responsible" type of writing.
