Inside and Beyond Words

in Aspasia
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As a child in Romania, I would choose a word and repeat it over and over until it lost its meaning. The syllables would superimpose one another and sound like a foreign language, not invented yet or long ago abandoned, something mysterious and antique, rough and absurd. Instead of opening up and shining acoustically, the sounds choked like marine animals tossed in a boiling cauldron. The word would then become tangible, heavy, like a clay rock thrown in the ocean. I would then await its dissolution, would watch for its disappearance while continuing to repeat it, compulsively, unable to control the joy of my offence. What are words? I asked myself. Where do they come from and where do they go?