We Must Escape And Help Others To

Confined On The Ship, From Which There Is No Escape, The Madman Is Delivered To The River With Its Thousand Arms, The Sea With Its Thousand Roads, To That Great Uncertainty External To Everything. He Is A Prisoner In The Midst Of What Is The Freest, The Openest Of Routes: Bound Fast At The Infinite Crossroads. He Is The Passenger Par Excellence: That Is, The Prisoner Of The Passage. And The Land He Will Come To Is Unknown—as Is, Once He Disembarks, The Land From Which He Comes. He Has His Truth And His Homeland Only In That Fruitless Expanse Between Two Countries That Cannot Belong To Him.

When Man Deploys The Arbitrary Nature Of His Madness, He Confronts The Dark Necessity Of The World; The Animal That Haunts His Nightmares And His Nights Of Privation Is His Own Nature, Which Will Lay Bare Hell's Pitiless Truth.

Why Should The Lamp Or The House Be An Art Object But Not Our Life?

The Imaginary Is Not Formed In Opposition To Reality As Its Denial Or Compensation; It Grows Among Signs, From Book To Book, In The Interstice Of Repetitions And Commentaries; It Is Born And Takes Shape In The Interval Between Books. It Is The Phenomena Of The Library.

There Is Not One But Many Silences, And They Are An Integral Part Of The Strategies That Underlie And Permeate Discourses.