She alone dares and wishes to know from within, where she, the outcast, has never ceased to hear the resonance of fore language. She lets the other language speak - the language of 1,000 tongues which knows neither enclosure nor death. To life she refuses nothing. Her language does not contain, it carries; it does not hold back; it makes possible.
Helene CixousAnd I was afraid. She frightens me because she can knock me down with a word. Because she does not know that writing is walking on a dizzying silence setting one word after the other on emptiness. Writing is miraculous and terrifying like the flight of a bird who has no wings but flings itself out and only gets wings by flying.
Helene CixousPerhaps what I do not manage to operate rapidly enough is the passage between the outside and the inside.
Helene CixousWriting is the passageway, the entrance, the exit, the dwelling place of the other in me.
Helene CixousLove is when you suddenly wake up as a cannibal, and not just any old cannibal, or else wake up destined for devourment.
Helene CixousWriting is the delicate, difficult, and dangerous means of succeeding in avowing the unavowable.
Helene CixousShe alone dares and wishes to know from within, where she, the outcast, has never ceased to hear the resonance of fore language. She lets the other language speak - the language of 1,000 tongues which knows neither enclosure nor death. To life she refuses nothing. Her language does not contain, it carries; it does not hold back; it makes possible.
Helene Cixous