We must learn to speak the language women speak when there is no one there to correct us.

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.

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

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.

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

Writing is the passageway, the entrance, the exit, the dwelling place of the other in me.

Other-Love is writing's first name.