The Language in Which She Writes
By writing, I fulfill my duty to blossom. By writing, I’m here once again, interwoven into the tapestry of reality, real, moreover, true. Is it important to the tapestry? What does it get from me? What does it lose without me? That question does not bother me anymore. It is enough for me to know it is important to me. All other knowledge is uncertain; it pleases some vanity of importance or the vanity of humility.
Would anyone watching a flower think that budding, transparency, innocence, the helpless (word choice?) opening of its petals, and finally its fragrance and pollen are a duty? And yet, perhaps, they definitely are. But that’s the obligation of being free, the obligation of being unconcerned. The duty of simply being...anything. Why not a flower? The duty akin to blossoming, the duty akin to freedom from duty when the fragrance, shininess and delight with which the flower exists has no other reason or goal but fragrance, shininess and delight. Such is the duty which is saturated with love. First it is struck by the fragrance, then it is intoxicated, and then saturated. When saturation and the saturated cancel each other out, there is a state of undifferentiated oneness, and then such loving duty becomes the duty of love. By writing, I get to know that flowering which is the duty of love and for me something without which I would die.
(Belgrade, 1958)