Each time this identity announces itself, someone or something cries: Look out for the trap, youre caught. Take off, get free, disengage yourself.

I speak only one language, and it is not my own.

I say things that contradict each other, that are in real tension with each other, that compose me, that make me live, and that will make me die.

That is what deconstruction is made of: not the mixture but the tension between memory, fidelity, the preservation of something that has been given to us, and, at the same time, heterogeneity, something absolutely new, and a break.

We are given over to absolute solitude. No one can speak with us and no one can speak for us; we must take it upon ourselves, each of us must take it upon himself.

Who ever said that one was born just once?

Everything is arranged so that it be this way, this is what is called culture.