What Strikes Me Is The Fact That

Literature Is A Form Of Language That Breaks With The Whole Definition Of Genres As Forms Adapted To An Order Of Representations, And Becomes Merely A Manifestation Of A Language Which Has No Other Law Than That Of Affirming In Opposition To All Other Forms Of Discourse Its Own Precipitous Existence.

Prison Continues, On Those Who Are Entrusted To It, A Work Begun Elsewhere, Which The Whole Of Society Pursues On Each Individual Through Innumerable Mechanisms Of Discipline.

I Am Hopelessly In Love With A Memory. An Echo From Another Time, Another Place.

But Let There Be No Misunderstanding: It Is Not That A Real Man, The Object Of Knowledge, Philosophical Reflection Or Technological Intervention, Has Been Substituted For The Soul, The Illusion Of Theologians. The Man Described For Us, Whom We Are Invited To Free, Is Already In Himself The Effect Of A Subjection More Profound Than Himself. A 'soul' Inhabits Him And Brings Him To Existence, Which Is Itself A Factor In The Mastery That Power Exercises Over The Body. The Soul Is The Effect And Instrument Of A Political Anatomy; The Soul Is The Prison Of The Body.

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