The incapacity to name is a good symptom of disturbance.
The text is a tissue of quotations drawn from the innumerable centres of culture.
Literature is that neuter, that composite, that oblique into which every subject escapes, the trap where all identity is lost, beginning with the very identity of the body that writes.
Literature is like phosphorus: it shines with its maximum brilliance and the moment when it attempts to die.
Language is a skin: I rub my language against the other. It is as if I had words instead of fingers, or fingers at the tip of my words. My language trembles with desire.
Don't say mourning. It's too psychoanalytic. I'm not mourning. I'm suffering.
Paradoxically (since people say: Work, amuse yourself, see friends) it’s when we’re busy, distracted, sought out, exteriorized, that we suffer most. Inwardness, calm, solitude makes us less miserable.
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