There is nothing outside the text

It is to have a compulsive, repetitive, and nostalgic desire for the archive, an irrepressible desire to return to the origin, a homesickness, a nostalgia for the return to the most archaic place of absolute commencement

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).

I never give in to the temptation to be difficult just for the sake of being difficult. That would be too ridiculous.

If things were simple, word would have gotten around.

Beyond the touchline there is nothing.

Actually, when I write, there is a feeling of necessity, of something that is stronger than myself that demands that I must write as I write.