The bell

At what point is *all that is already written* sufficient? Apparently never. But who or what affirms this? Writing? Writing that says that it is never good enough, never clear enough, never exhaustive enough, never concise enough? Or the writer, who still has in his mind but a single text, a text he seems to have multiplied in poor facsimile, without ever delivering an original?

“What do you still want to know, then?” asks the gatekeeper. “You are insatiable.” 

Writing that is lacking in achievement, in clarity, in scope, in focus: is this *really* what it is lacking? Or is it simply that it still waits, implacably, to be dismissed? It waits for a greater authority than its progenitor to set it loose and let it be. And so, for his part, the author soon seeks not so much to perfect it as to write himself apart from it, not so much to deliver it as to cut himself free of it.