One's birthday is always a good point to revise one's life. Blaise Cendrars's birthday is September 1, Antonin Artaud's September 4, and Maurice Blanchot's September 7, I think. In between I have mine on the 3rd. A Virgo, like anybody from Borges and Goethe to Loren Eiseley and Michel Butor, for example. This is the company I belong with. And I have been feeling that for the last twenty years and more.
At 49 going on 50, I have to be serious about what to do for the rest of my life. I envision a decade of professional life ahead of me. There are a bunch and bundle of my past "future projects" lying about. Now, what?
In a decade to come I'll write only about four books, realistically. I'll translate about four. I'll give about 10 academic papers, one per year. The rest is journalism. Can't do much, eh?
Again it's a question of NOT TO DO SUCH AND SUCH. I have always been very weak in this respect.
Lachez tout, amigo. What you write matters. But not it's quantity. Nor it's popularity. What matters is its soul. And soul is only expressed as attitude.
