I am sick of death and worst of all this sickness feeds on itself, the more afraid I am the more I am afraid the more I flee the more I am afraid the more I am haunted.

It is said that life and death are under the power of language.

Censor the body and you censor breath and speech at the same time. Write yourself. Your body must be heard.

There is no greater love than the love the wolf feels for the lamb-it-doesn’t-eat.

Perhaps what I do not manage to operate rapidly enough is the passage between the outside and the inside.

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.

Writing is the delicate, difficult, and dangerous means of succeeding in avowing the unavowable.