William Board, the painter, woke up in his studio that morning with a sense of infinite possibility. Then he remembered: it was a matter of a line, a line he started drawing in heavy black paint toward the edge of the canvas--but when he reached the edge, he didn't stop

--where did it go, he wondered? He remembered the painter Paul Klee writing about how he would take the line for a walk. Was it possible that the line was taking itself for a walk? And if lines could take themselves for walks was it not possible that words could take themselves for walks? Because what were written words but lines? And if words can go their own, and do, doesn't that mean they're trying to tell you something?


that must be used to breathe life into language again, writing into language, since aleph can only be written, but writing as the source of language, as with the aleph, meaning nothing but the source of meaning . . . . .






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