But My Silence Is Real. If I

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.

If Nothing Were Substituted For Everything, It Would Still Be Too Much And Too Little.

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.

The Less Manifest The Work, The Stronger: As Though A Secret Law Demanded It Always Be Hidden In What It Shows, Thus Showing What Must Remain Hidden, Only Showing It, In The End, By Dissimulation.