I don’t know is my answer, although whether I know must be doubted. Criticism is an attempt to understand. If it’s fought, the negation: claiming to know is the lie; I can’t know isn’t doubted— and criticism lies near scorn. I must not ever lie to myself, not ever. I want to criticize myself, but I must be careful. I want to understand. I must ask what compels me, why I am uneasy. I must not fall into a rational trap when the answer could be a feeling. Here the essence of whether we think without words. But I’m trying to talk about what happened. How this could be answered. Is, the finding without the find, the sound that draws me into the shortest distance, my eyes to my hands, my eyes and my voice in my ears. No question of confusion. In neurosis, mad fingers dance or we sit on them and all the things we have with us, putting them in place. I must see, and believe.
13 October 1971