Before the fourth semester,

Art academy,

Intermedia department,

creative writing class,

therefore: some sort of summary of the previous.

Without argument it is redundant.

Exactly about how to teach something that cannot be taught.

In this situation, in situations like this, it is best to become embarrassed.

It is best if we become embarrassed, and we let it be seen very well.

It shows anyway. This really cannot be done without argument. Anyway, if someone really wants to write, he should buy himself a computer, this much I can surely say without having to blush.

And then something can always happen in the meantime.

Anything could happen. This much perhaps as a summary and plan.

I donít really have to write.

How to write literature, that, I will not say.

Anyway it is not possible, actually it is possible, but not worth the while. But: writing has to be learned, somehow, because it is useful in many cases. Actually for everything. Or almost. It can be attained with some spirit -a soulful disposition. Continuous verbal reflection strengthens just that disposition. They strengthen each other. Automatically, somehow, in everyone.

Everyone has to learn, from himself. Re-writing and re-writing a sentence till it differs from he who wrote it, because it covers-up a bit of the soul. It serves just that purpose. The topic of such a class cannot really be anything else, nothing else can be examined but this requirement. Even though the questions are only then, actually raised.

The questions arise only when we know a small bit, well.

What provokes me to write something down.

What provokes me to even write a word.

Why especially that. Why that word, why there, beside that other one. Why not something else. Why not nothing.

Though I do not think that anything important hasnít been said before me, that we would know anything without each other, that the things to be said are not distributed equally among all people.

It is enough even for the most simple.

I have to believe, that, if anyone really wants to say something to me, he is an idiot.

Not as if I know anything. But, who knows anything. He knows truly.

Still: writing things down. I write; and also say, obviously: something, without that it cannot be done. We keep saying the same few things to each other.

And the responsibility is still what develops in the meantime. Towards myself, or whatever that is within. If I write it down, there is responsibility. There it is. Then I erase it, and, see, its gone. The responsibility is gone. Itís best to cross it out. I crossed it out. A computer erases well. A writer should, in any case, always have a big eraser.

For example we have a big purple tile stove in the corner, thatís where I burn all my unnecessary writings .

It is impossible to teach someone how to write literature. Organising literary text; giving birth to writings; what makes a piece art. I donít know.

You canít know. But can you feel it?

And we know all about are feelings, donít we. We can confer our feelings pretty well, we reflect upon our feelings, the soup is good, I have to urinate, my tooth hurts, so does love, and the stars are shining. And this is artistic pleasure.

A creation, is the reflection of a soul, of a mental structure, its objectification, or whatever, and that mechanism is the penetration of another mental structure: this intercourse is what we call artistic pleasure.

Artistic pleasure is proof of our visceral nervous system. Or at least is our visceral nervous system.

Something can be said about facts like these, maybe.

Pretty hard.


So let it be impossible.

Let it be impossible for me.

Endre Kukorelly (1993)