the unconscious mind of a book

Clémence Boulouque once told me that every book, every text, every work of art, has an unconscious mind of its own–subjects we did not address, readings that did not fit in, drafts we never completed, concerns that were not included, thoughts we discarded. Now that Forgiving Philosophy is finally out there, I can get to work on (or play with) these other materials. To begin with, I need to finish a relatively short text on Venezuela. This might be the first (and, chances are, the last) time I will ever write on the matter. So far, I call this text The frailty of nations.
That this is the first thing I need to write after finishing a book on forgiveness feels natural and painful. My birthplace (a place I sometimes wish I could forget, if not forgive) is surely one of the many unconscious concerns lurking in Forgiving Philosophy. Is the merciless, unrepentant, bloody, cruel history of Venezuela (since its very colonial inception) just another historical instantiation of everything we deem unforgivable?