A Writer Never Reads His Work. For

A Story? No. No Stories, Never Again.

I Lean Over You, Your Equal, Offering You A Mirror For Your Perfect Nothingness, For Your Shadows Which Are Neither Light Nor Absence Of Light, For This Void Which Contemplates. To All That Which You Are, And, For Our Language, Are Not, I Add A Consciousness. I Make You Experience Your Supreme Identity As A Relationship, I Name You And Define You. You Become A Delicious Passivity.

What If What Has Been Said One Time Not Only Does Not Cease To Be Said But Always Recommences, And Not Only Recommences But Also Imposes Upon Us The Idea That Nothing Has Ever Truly Begun, Having From The Beginning Begun By Beginning Again.

Every Artist Is Linked To A Mistake With Which He Has A Particular Intimate Relation. There Is The Mistake Of Homer, Of Shakespeare — Which Is Perhaps, For Both, The Fact Of Not Existing. Every Art Draws Its Origin From An Exceptional Fault, Every Work Is The Implementation Of This Original Fault, From Which Come To Us A New Light And A Risky Conception Of Plenitude.

Literature Professes To Be Important While At The Same Time Considering Itself An Object Of Doubt. It Confirms Itself As It Disparages Itself. It Seeks Itself: This Is More Than It Has A Right To Do, Because Literature May Be One Of Those Things Which Deserve To Be Found But Not To Be Sought.