The only book that is worth writing is the one we don’t have the courage or strength to write. The book that hurts us (we who are writing), that makes us tremble, redden, bleed

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.

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

We must kill the false woman who is preventing the live one from breathing.

Only when you are lost can love find itself in you without losing its way.

I am not innocent. Innocence is a science of the sublime. And I am only at the very beginning of the apprenticeship.

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