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.
I transform "Work" in its analytic meaning (the Work of Mourning, the Dream-Work) into the real "Work" - of writing.
In this manner , we are told, the system of the imaginary is spread circularly, by detours and returns the length of an empty subject.
What right does my present have to speak of my past? Has my present some advantage over my past? What "grace" might have enlightened me? except that of passing time, or of a good cause, encountered on my way?
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