There is a rule in writing which is found, denied, and mislaid again. It is the rule that causes writing to become a compulsion.

The text, the true deep text, the text that binds us to its convolutions as much as it does to its pristine clarity, must remain hidden. It will turn away before us. It will remain elusive as we pursue it. It will not, and cannot, be brought into the life-world.  It is the text that must not be read. But more importantly, it is the text that must not be written. All writing, and every text, is maddened by the true text as its underlying condition. It leaves by the other door as writing enters the room. Before a similar mystery but encountered in another domain, someone posed the not entirely unrelated question: 'how does it feel to be driven away from your own steering wheel?'