Don't Say Mourning. It's Too Psychoanalytic. I'm

We Can Never Know, For The Good Reason That Writing Is The Destruction Of Every Voice, Every Origin. Writing Is That Neuter, That Composite, That Obliquity Into Which Our Subject Flees, The Black-and-white Where All Identity Is Lost, Beginning With The Very Identity Of The Body That Writes.

For The Theatre One Needs Long Arms; It Is Better To Have Them Too Long Than Too Short. An Artiste With Short Arms Can Never, Never Make A Fine Gesture.

Each Of Us Has His Own Rhythm Of Suffering.

Every Object In The World Can Pass From A Closed, Silent Existence To An Oral State, Open To Appropriation By Society, For There Is No Law, Whether Natural Or Not, Which Forbids Talking About Things

To Whom Could I Put This Question (with Any Hope Of An Answer)? Does Being Able To Live Without Someone You Loved Mean You Loved Her Less Than You Thought...?