Lately I can’t stop reading, thinking, obsessing, about love. As a theoretical exercise: what is this thing which has no intention, no obvious purpose, no end towards which a process inevitably, predictably unfolds? A feeling which, like all aesthetic experience, is not general – it is particular to each instance, originating out of a singular sensational body, evoking a response which betrays pleasure and displeasure, desire, want, colour. What is the house that love built made of, made for? I don’t think I make sense about half of the time in my writing but I can’t stop circling back to this idea at the moment, maybe there’s something in it that I haven’t yet connected up in my mind













