Take the gesture, the action of writing. I have an almost obsessive relation to writing instruments. I often switch from one pen to another just for the pleasure of it. I try out new ones. I have far too many pens - I don't know what to do with all of them! And yet, as soon as I see a new one, I start craving it. I cannot keep myself from buying them.

The author enters into his own death, writing begins.

Is not the most erotic part of the body wherever the clothing affords a glimpse?

The lover's fatal identity is precisely this: I am the one who waits.

To eat, to speak, to sing (need we add: to kiss?) are operations which have the same site of the body for origin.

Don't say mourning. It's too psychoanalytic. I'm not mourning. I'm suffering.

The politician being interviewed clearly takes a great deal of trouble to imagine an ending to his sentence: and if he stopped short? His entire policy would be jeopardized!