If I Only Did What I Can

I Never Give In To The Temptation To Be Difficult Just For The Sake Of Being Difficult. That Would Be Too Ridiculous.

The Trace I Leave To Me Means At Once My Death, To Come Or Already Come, And The Hope That It Will Survive Me. It Is Not An Ambition Of Immortality; It Is Fundamental. I Leave Here A Bit Of Paper, I Leave, I Die; It Is Impossible To Exit This Structure; It Is The Unchanging Form Of My Life. Every Time I Let Something Go, I Live My Death In Writing.

What Is Called "objectivity," Scientific For Instance (in Which I Firmly Believe, In A Given Situation) Imposes Itself Only Within A Context Which Is Extremely Vast, Old, Firmly Established, Or Rooted In A Network Of Conventions ... And Yet Which Still Remains A Context.

Every Discourse, Even A Poetic Or Oracular Sentence, Carries With It A System Of Rules For Producing Analogous Things And Thus An Outline Of Methodology.

Still Today, I Cannot Cross The Threshold Of A Teaching Institution Without Physical Symptoms, In My Chest And My Stomach, Of Discomfort Or Anxiety. And Yet I Have Never Left School.