Wednesday, March 03, 2010


The time
for writing to entertain other people is over. I don't write to entertain others, or myself. This book is an instrument, a tool - and it must be hard + shaped like a tool, long, thick, and blunt. This notebook is not a diary. It is not an aid to memory, so that I can remember that on such and such a date I saw that film of Buñuel, or how unhappy I was over J, or that Cádiz seemed beautiful but Madrid not.


Susan Sontag i Reborn: Journals and Notebooks, 1947-1963


Anonymous said...


Susanne said...

Oh, Gee, I really hope Thurston Moore left that message :-) He has a very nice blog right here.

Susan has left her husband and son for Paris by this time. She's 25 and she lives in a painful relationship with the woman H, in a kinda Sadean reenactment of Djuna Barnes' Nightwood. At this time she is fiercely negotiating the concept of the diary, right after this paragraph she breaks into fiction ... like, the diary is not an aid to her memory, it is a production of something ... she's making up herself, her life, through writing.

Btw, here is Ina Bloms review of Reborn.