And I was afraid. She frightens me because she can knock me down with a word. Because she does not know that writing is walking on a dizzying silence setting one word after the other on emptiness. Writing is miraculous and terrifying like the flight of a bird who has no wings but flings itself out and only gets wings by flying.

What happens: events interiors, snatch them from the cradle, from the source. I want to watch watching arrive. I want to watch arrivances. I want to find the root of needing to eat. And taste it: work of sweat / sleep.

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.

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

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.