So writing involves some dashing back and forth between the darkening landscape where facticity is strewn and a windowless room cleared of everything. I do not know. It is the clearing that takes time. It is the clearing that is a mistery.
Once cleared the room writes itself. I copy the names of everything left in it and note their activity.
How does the clearing occur? Lukács says it begins with my intent to exercise everything that is not accessible to the immediate experience (Erlebbarkeit) of the self. Were this possible, it would seal the room on its own boundaries like a cosmos. Lukács is prescribing a room for aesthetic work; it would be a gesture of false consciousness to say academic writing can take place there. And yet, you know as well as I, thought finds itself in its room in its best moments -
locked inside its own pressures, fishing of facts of the landscape from notes or memory as well as it may - vibrating (as Mallarmé would say) with their disappearance.
Anne Carson, Economy of the Unlost, Princeton Paperbacks, 1999.