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

It is said that life and death are under the power of language.

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

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.

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.

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

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