fait accompli

"I cannot let write like who cannot leave the alcoholism. I have tried the love and the academy, the Gestalt psycotherapy and the Tecate beer, the aphorism and zen, the photography and the bicycle, but nothing. I always return, I add more text to a work that it wanted to consist of one joint done of pure pieces of silence. But I cannot. Whenever I write a word comes an intermediate silence, it is certain, but soon other words come, too many. If somebody observes and listens to well this text it can give account of this. But also extrañ can be given account of something enough: in all text there are many words but also much silence, many empty syllables, syllables of silence that they avoid that all the language becomes a single word and, simultaneously, that silence is a secret triumph. But that triumph is not mine, because whenever I want to write an empty syllable leaves a word to me. To write is a lost battle."

Here is a better translation:

"I can't stop writing--the same way a drinker cannot stop being an alcholic. I've tried love, academia, Gestalt psychotherapy, Tecate, aphorisms, zen, photography, and bicycle riding, but it's no good. I always come back. I add more text to a work that wants to remain a joining together of sections of pure silence. But I can't do it. Every time I write a word there is an intervening silence, it's true, but then an excessive number of words intrude. Someone observing and listening carefully to this text will notice this. But he will also notice something rather strange. In every text there are many words but also a lot of silence, many empty syllables, syllables of silence that prevent all language from becoming a single word. And, at the same time, this silence is secret triumph. But this triumph is not mine, because every time I try to write an empty syllable a whole word comes out. To write is a lost battle." --Heriberto Yépez.