Obsession is elsewhere


-But writing what?

-Writing about obsession, death.
-What obsession? What death?
-Writing about obsession, writing about death.
-I do not understand.
-You cannot. You cannot if you do not want.
-If I do not want what?
-To recognize obsession.

-What? What obsession?
-That one with writing, for instance.
-But writing is not an obsession.
-So what is it, then?
-It’s a passion. Writing is a passion.
-Passion is never completely alien to obsession.
-Writing is also a job.
-Having our works read. To the point of making ourselves simple, in order to be read. And then coming back, because we have betrayed.
-Betrayed what?
-Our own writing.
-Yes. Maybe. Sometimes. Never completely.
-But we’re never completely faithful. No, neither this. Never completely faithful to our own writing, to ourselves. Why?
-In order to be read.
-Here you are, this is an obsession. This. Writing in order to be read. But also writing, writing for ourselves. I could never stop writing, and neither you could.
-Do not lie to yourself.
-I am not lying. But maybe obsession is elsewhere.
-Somewhere else. Elsewhere.
-What elsewhere?
-In loneliness. There, yes, in the place of loneliness. Inside. And outside. When we write. We are lonely when we write, we are lonely people. Even if we are not truly lonely. But we are when we write, lonely.
-And where does obsession stay?
-Right in loneliness. Obsession with being lonely, when we write. After that we are not lonely anymore. But writing is loneliness. A loneliness far from everything. Far from everyone. From the world. In order to penetrate the world better, to be in the world.
-To come into the world.
-Here you are, yes, to come into the world. To be born into the world. Lonely, to the point of feeling lost. And then…
-And then, what?
-And then nothing. No more white pages, just the world remains.
-What world?
-The one you have created, the one that has created you. Molded you. The one that exists on pages that are not white anymore, that existed before you, and will
still existafter. But, earlier,it had a different shape. I molded it again when I wrote it. For me. And for those who want to venture to read. I am that world.
-Yes, me with myself. With my world. And with the rest of that world’s part I have imprisoned within black lines on white page. My freedom. My jail.
-Your jail?
-Yes, the world’s jail. And of the white page. Which is finite but infinite at the same time. There is always another white page.
-And another book
-And another book, yes. Or another fragment. Fragments of world. Fragments of myself. My obsession.
-Yes, you are right. Writing, always writing. Even for those who will write after me.

Translation by Irene Lami (edited by Sara Di Girolamo)

Previous articleLise Bourbeau – Heal Your Wounds and Find Your True Self
Next articleBlue is the Warmest Color
Heiko H. Caimi
Heiko H. Caimi, born in 1968, is a writer, screenwriter, poet and teacher of fiction writing. He has collaborated as an author with publishers Mondadori, Tranchida, Abrigliasciolta and others. He has taught at the Egea bookshop of Bocconi University in Milan and several other schools, libraries and associations in Italy and Switzerland. Since 2013 he has been editorial director of the literature magazine Inkroci. He is one of the founders and organizers of the traveling literary festival Libri in Movimento. He collaborates with the news magazine "InPrimis" keeping the column "Pages in a minute" and with the blog of the writer Barbara Garlaschelli "Sdiario". He published the novel "I predestinati" (The Predestined, Prospero, 2019) and edited the anthology of short stories "Oltre il confine. Storie di migrazione" (Over the border. Migration stories, Prospero, 2019).