We do not truly speak except at a distance. There is no word not severed.

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.

In the morning, you tear up the pages of your fever, but every word naturally leads you back to its color, its night.

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

Only what touches us closely preoccupies us. We prepare in solitude to face it. (The Little Book of Unsuspected Subversion)

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

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