The Paris Review - Blog Archive Variations on a Few Sentences by Can Xue
love spams burn in the deepest circle of spam hell. I’m overtaken with sudden rage. Brusquely I shut the computer. The eye of light goes out. I am completely alone without emails. I’ll open the drawer of the old writing desk. There’s still—who left it here? —a stack of notepaper. I pull out a sheet. It’s yellow, it has a nice thickness. I caress the grain. I search for a pen. Is there still a pen? Yes, in this drawer that I haven’t opened in years, there’s a Bic, a vestige from the time of writing, and I taunt the dark screen. I write from top to bottom and from left to right...