There is writing to touch like silk, which produces the finest translucency of light, as if it weren’t word but transparency. This writing however melts in the fire, slumps around forms like the folds...read more of Balzac’s cloak. Only that state telescopes. Other writing has rigors that never melt. Initially soft it turns brittle and stiff as though there were only one too soft, the other too hard. Another holds itself after the soft to malleable the impasto and shave, roll coat thin, one atop another, palimpsest gratefully to accept the translucent undercarriage that allows the shine. Writing must pass the fire twice, the first prepares to receive the second. Those that enter a second time will not change. Purified as silver, not intellect at all, the shrinkage of one losing water and vanity of mind before anointing with fine oil. Writing wants to receive impression, resist correctly and give form of the formless, the shape of the shaper.