Thinking is trying to think the unthinkable: thinking the thinkable is not worth the effort.

Love is when you suddenly wake up as a cannibal, and not just any old cannibal, or else wake up destined for devourment.

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

Decisive moment: the one when you will be really alone. And it is perhaps this that makes her hesitate: not the void, but the vastness of the solitude. It's as well if you are frightened of solitude. It's a sign that you have come to the moment of your birth.

We must learn to speak the language women speak when there is no one there to correct us.

Writing is the passageway, the entrance, the exit, the dwelling place of the other in me.

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.