I would have said it feels misdirected, precious, blunted, even frivilous to call a book sexy. And then, there was Writing, Marguerite Duras. This is absolutely, essentially, wonderfully sexy. Sensuous, abundant, blooded. It is necessary to hold this book.

It seems unthinkable that this book has only been with me for months, less than a calendar year. It feels always already like an intimate friend, a talisman, my renewal & tonic. It has been a refuge and tinder often these past months, fulcrum and dye for my working, waking life.

This woman, these words operate in that beautiful wavelength between intuition & surprise. Like water, lightning, an echo that comes before.

Also, it seems appropriate to have a mention of my friend Alison--in the midst of her own brilliant refuge & tinder, down at her nola studiola. Fellow follower of Duras.