"All Feeling" - an erasure poem from page 162 of David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest
That was all he wanted for himself - to give to her… He had done nothing wrong but in him he felt a strange guilt. Why? The dark guilt in all men, unreckoned and without a name.
Smell mingled with his slow rumination. The sense of the past grew in him. Memories built themselves with almost architectural order.
And then after a while he knew what each one would say before he began, because the meaning was always the same.
She knows I am deaf but she thinks I know about music
When a reader falls in love with a book, it leaves its essence inside him, like radioactive fallout in an arable field, and after that there are certain crops that will no longer grow in him, while other, stranger, more fantastic growths may occasionally be produced.
In the ordinary jumble of my literary drawer, I sometimes find texts I wrote ten, fifteen, or even more years ago. And many of them seem to me written by a stranger: I simply do not recognize myself in them. There was a person who wrote them, and it was I. I experienced them, but it was in another life, from which I just woke up, as if from someone else’s dream.