t. I picked up languages the way some people pick up viruses. I was armed with literature.

As a family, we possess a great deal of intelligence -- a kind of superintellect -- but we came into this world, one after the other, during the era when Nietzsche famously said that God is dead. We believe that death is the reason why we have always been so terribly shortchanged when it comes to luck. We are ill-fated, destined to wander in perpetual exile across a world hostile to our intelligence. In fact, possessing an agile intellect with literary overtones has only served to worsen our fate. But it is what we know and have. We are convinced that ink runs through our veins instead of blood.

1a:T662,

I thought that being in the country would help me write, with its fields and its horses, but I don't think I was meant for that. For the country, or for help.

Out in the street, candles light every window. When I can't get my thoughts down, I look at them. The flames remind me of my future; I'm afraid I might burn everything up. People are walking in and out of the same four shops; I know they haven't bought anything good. When I went inside those shops, I was bored. I'm bored by this one street.

If something flows through me, I think it is mine. It is not mine. The carriages driving close to my windows.

It's strange being along again. In the afternoon there's a spaciousness larger that I've ever wanted. I had a husband and I left him; I wonder how he is. Now I have writing, but I also have too much of my own self. I am stalking my own soul.

I wanted to write about paintings, but I wasn't seen as someone who could say something interesting about art. I wasn't seen as someone who could say anything at all and then publish it. When I went with my husband to the museum, I felt I should be cleaning that place. I was used to that work and maybe it is my destiny. Before meeting my husband, I had mopped the floors of those galleries, over and over. I had scrubbed the walls until my palms were rou

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