The Disaster... Is What Escapes The Very

Express Only That Which Cannot Be Expressed. Leave It Unexpressed)

To See Was Terrifying, And To Stop Seeing Tore Me Apart From My Forehead To My Throat.

Every Artist Is Linked To A Mistake With Which He Has A Particular Intimate Relation. There Is The Mistake Of Homer, Of Shakespeare — Which Is Perhaps, For Both, The Fact Of Not Existing. Every Art Draws Its Origin From An Exceptional Fault, Every Work Is The Implementation Of This Original Fault, From Which Come To Us A New Light And A Risky Conception Of Plenitude.

But My Silence Is Real. If I Hid It From You, You Would Find It Again A Little Farther On.

To Write Is To Make Oneself The Echo Of What Cannot Cease Speaking - And Since It Cannot, In Order To Become Its Echo I Have, In A Way, To Silence It. I Bring To This Incessant Speech The Decisiveness, The Authority Of My Own Silence.