The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive


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by virtue of the indent, language becomes stuff
 it sits there, gnawing at the margin, as if something else were going
 on. it continues in this fashion - there was a pressure applied, a
 sliding effect
  no such thing exists in any form whatsoever. someone thinks: it's a
  conscious choice, the words were put there, they were arranged in
  such-and-such a fashion
  in reality it could be anything at all. but it gnaws, slips, slides
  forward, just about to topple, this substance of language, this
  phonemics which sticks in the throat,
   the most vulnerable part of the body. there is no stopping speech, nor
   syntax, once language moves from protolanguage, protosyntax, to this
   incipient point,
   then back again, as now. a conjuration 'in print' of language's
   foreignness, its other of any other. as if we're faced of a sudden,
   faced of a night, with this determinative
   (indicated by a push
   (indicating by a toppling, or what appears to be an arrangement
    perhaps a contract made by someone or something)
    perhaps the very nature of a contract itself)


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