P argues that if we can experience this shorthand for love, for which we have no name and by which we mean something else (HG says, it is a metaphor for love) then we might write something as if we, (meaning she) did not write it. And that is my goal, she says. To write something not written by me. If I could do that it would be the same as this shorthand. She is frustrated with our lack of a name for this shorthand for something indescribable, and she decides that we must give it a name so she pulls out a dictionary and opens it at random and points her finger to a word. Then she asks me to name the word. She looks at me oddly because I am not saying anything and the reason is that she has placed her index finger on a place on the page where there is no writing whatsoever. Of course, she and I, and our companions can generally be located in the margins, so we shouldn’t be surprised. So I tell her, you’ve touched the white space. You see what I mean, she says, angrily, handing me the book. This is impossible.