What does it matter how many lovers you have if none of them gives you the universe?

Writings scatter to the winds blank checks in an insane charge. And were they not such flying leaves, there would be no purloined letters.

I always speak the truth. Not the whole truth, because there's no way, to say it all. Saying it all is literally impossible: words fail. Yet it's through this very impossibility that the truth holds onto the real.

Yet, analytical truth is not as mysterious, or as secret, so as to not allow us to see that people with a talent for directing consciences see truth rise spontaneously.

The unconscious is structured like a language.

What does it matter how many lovers you have if none of them gives you the universe?

But what Freud showed us… was that nothing can be grasped, destroyed, or burnt, except in a symbolic way, as one says, in effigie, in absentia.