Berlin holds coincidence. In the distance, the now-dampened flames of an apartment block no longer mirror the gold of the sun. At sunset, the light burst through our house, lengthways, creating whorls of dust in the hall, and a blinding glow in the living room.
I have been writing today, and realising novels are strange. They are a rare collusion of person, time and place.
This novel, delicately, holds a relationship that goes beyond any calendar I know of. It reaches past national borders without seeing them. The paragraphs form an entirely new history. I do not mean that they offer an alternative to an accepted history, although of course they do. Rather I want to say something that in fact I cannot express in words. I do not have the education, yet this is also irrelevant. I know many things, I hold facts without effort but here, this history that exists now between me and the characters.
But it is damned. The very nature of the sentence is that of an argument, it is a predicate built upon, a sedimentation of meaning that leads to an action, a statement, a story. These forms are inadequate, life makes them so.
I want to create not a history, but an indicator that such a rupturing, anti-epochal movement sends shockwaves both into the unknown future and deep into the accepted past. There is more to be said on this, but not here. It is enough to think of it as a coincidence.