Moments of truly heady thinking on the psychology and metaphysical significance of the writerly impulse, a probing of act and being that feels philosophically profound without ringing true for most writers, in any event. Blanchot's analysis of Kafka, however, is exceptional and insightful. And there, I suggest, we stop our reading. Blanchot then turns full tilt into the role of death and suicide in the creative impulse, and he never lets go. It is at this moment in the work where one wonders if we are reflecting on writing or upon the writer's personal obsession. Where does this reflection leave us? Nowhere (in)definite, no where (en)lightening, and no where satiated.