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

Me too, I make do, I anoint what cannot be fixed.

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

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

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.

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

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.