When I discovered books I discovered a place apart from my mother's words, my own place, a womb within which I am the beloved master. The book was a rabbit hole, and the reading was a fall into an ideal space of time. Independence is an ideal, a desire forbidden by reality. In my ideal world I create myself and the mise en scene.

Words spoken and heard alone do not permit a space in which history can unfold; there is no point of origin within the body of spoken language. All that is is the endless round from listening to speaking and back again. A book must have a beginning and an end. In the process of reading/writing Mother's world becomes Father's world; the Parents' world becomes the Child's world. This ideal world does not replace the real one; the ideal and the real are juxtaposed, but it is unclear where one begins and the other leaves off.

Does "history" arise from "nature" or is the reverse the case? In any case, since learning to read, I find myself of two minds, one real and one wishful thinking. As I see it right now, idealism is the motor of the wheel of necessity; they go together.