Forgotten manuscript

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Could anyone possibly believe that writing doesn’t exist? It would be like denying the existence of rain. The perfect green notebook forms the basis for Sergio Chejfec’s work, collecting writing, and allowing it to exist in a state of permanent possibility, or, as he says, ‘The written word is also capable of waiting for the next opportunity to appear and to continue to reveal itself by and for itself.’ This same notebook is also the jumping off point for this essay, which considers the dimensions of the act of writing (legibility, annotation, facsimile, inscription, typewriter versus word processor versus pen) as a way of thinking, as a record of relative degrees of permanence, and as a performance.

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“Sergio Chejfec is an admirable writer.” -Patti Smith

“Could anyone possibly believe that writing doesn’t exist? It would be like denying the existence of rain.”

The perfect green notebook forms the basis for Sergio Chejfec’s work, collecting writing, and allowing it to exist in a state of permanent possibility, or, as he says, “The written word is also capable of waiting for the next opportunity to appear and to continue to reveal itself by and for itself.” 

This same notebook is also the jumping off point for this essay, which considers the dimensions of the act of writing (legibility, annotation, facsimile, inscription, typewriter versus word processor versus pen) as a way of thinking, as a record of relative degrees of permanence, and as a performance. From Kafka through Borges, Nabokov, Levrero, Walser, the implications of how we write take on meaning as well worth considering as what we write. This is a love letter to the act of writing as practice, bearing down on all the ways it happens (cleaning typewriter keys, the inevitable drying out of the bottle of wite-out, the difference between Word Perfect and Word) to open up all the ways in which “when we express our thought, it changes.”