My most resolute opponents believe that I am too visible, that I am a little too alive, that my name echoes too much in the texts which they nevertheless claim to be inaccessible.

Contrary to what phenomenology- which is always phenomenology of perception- has tried to make us believe, contrary to what our desire cannot fail to be tempted into believing, the thing itself always escapes.

I’m no good for anything except taking the world apart and putting it together again (and I manage the latter less and less frequently).

Within the university... you can study without waiting for any efficient or immediate result. You may search, just for the sake of searching, and try for the sake of trying. So there is a possibility of what I would call playing. It's perhaps the only place within society where play is possible to such an extent.

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

The circle of the return to birth can only remain open, but this is a chance, a sign of life, and a wound.

I believe in the value of the book, which keeps something irreplaceable, and in the necessity of fighting to secure its respect.