It is true that, despite all the inherent affliction of writing, organizing thought, shaping it into words, varying forms, testing new possibilities and dressing it differently with each new piece, has its pleasures. Unpretentiously, it is possible to enjoy and take a liking to the process, without which one does not get far in letters. The unfortunate thing is that literature is not limited to these moments when thought seems like inert matter and the artist’s job is simply to conform it, as if, by doing so, the artist does not bind himself to it in such a way that expression always appears imperfect and always represents a painful separation.