Menena Cottin

Sometimes the book is born in your head. You look for an idea, a word, a memory to light the spark. Other times, while you’re sleeping, without warning or reason, a light that blinds you goes on and puts an end to your dream, triggering words or images that stun you, obeying orders without reason, like robots. Other times, the book is born from the hand without a head. The pencil plays over the paper, it dances, turns around, makes doodles and pirouettes, and then, suddenly, the paper’s infinite whiteness turns into a stage, the lines come alive and a new story begins.