The Disaster Ruins Everything, All The While

A Story? No. No Stories, Never Again.

There Is Between Sleep And Us Something Like A Pact, A Treaty With No Secret Clauses, And According To This Convention It Is Agreed That, Far From Being A Dangerous, Bewitching Force, Sleep Will Become Domesticated And Serve As An Instrument Of Our Power To Act. We Surrender To Sleep, But In The Way That The Master Entrusts Himself To The Slave Who Serves Him.

A Writer Never Reads His Work. For Him, It Is The Unreadable, A Secret, And He Cannot Remain Face To Face With It. A Secret, Because He Is Separated From It.

The Less Manifest The Work, The Stronger: As Though A Secret Law Demanded It Always Be Hidden In What It Shows, Thus Showing What Must Remain Hidden, Only Showing It, In The End, By Dissimulation.

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.