Literary Nonfiction. Beginning is impossible. To imagine a new work is to know that it is impossible to begin. I cannot think of origins. They are too far back. They are far too close. One is not only already on the way, one’s ‘beginning’ was never one’s own, nor was it theirs who gave you birth, and surrounded you with the unfulfillable hope of their hopeless longings. So, how do I understand all these stops and starts the unstoppable fragmentary sputterings of the uninterruptedly continuous.