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

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.

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

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.

Censor the body and you censor breath and speech at the same time. Write yourself. Your body must be heard.

If my desire is possible, it means the system is already letting something else through.

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.