THE WRITER can get free of his writing only by using it, that is, by reading oneself. As if the aim of writing were to use what is already written as a launching pad for reading the writing to come. Moreover, what he has written is read in the process, hence constantly modified by his reading. The book is an unbearable totality. I write against a background of facets.

By the light of our insistent truths we wander into death

My hands are full when you give me your hand.

Through the ear, we shall enter the invisibility of things.

What is not grasped has all the chances to become real.

Wound me . . . I can only feed on my humiliated blood.

One wound is enough to feed the open wounds of the sky.