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

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.

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.

in the synagogue of my heart... I myself jail and the jailed, I go wounded, bite-marked

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

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.