Writing (n.) is the extreme test: one gives oneself away without knowing to whom one entrusts what one leaves behind.
Writing (n.) is the snake Jim cannot kill — head beaten flat, it keeps coiling, doubling and falling back on itself, the 'W' that produces him as its effect.
Writing (n.) is to some extent blind: it cannot know the hands it will fall into, how it will be read and used, or the sources from which it comes.
Writing (n.) is the site of a necessary and inevitable expropriation after the decentering of the subject — a yielding of ownership that opens a difficult future of community.
Writing (n.) enters a field larger and less masterable than the one we provisionally command; its unanticipated reappropriations are often its most useful life.