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.

Other-Love is writing's first name.

You only have to look at the Medusa straight on to see her. And she's not deadly. She's beautiful and she's laughing.

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

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

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

There is no greater love than the love the wolf feels for the lamb-it-doesn’t-eat.