Language Is A Skin: I Rub My

...what I Enjoy In A Narrative Is Not Directly Its Content Or Even Its Structure, But Rather The Abrasions I Impose Upon The Fine Surface: I Read On, I Skip, I Look Up, I Dip In Again. Which Has Nothing To Do With The Deep Laceration The Text Of Bliss Inflicts Upon Language Itself, And Not Upon The Simple Temporality Of Its Reading.

The Author Enters Into His Own Death, Writing Begins.

Other Countries Drink To Get Drunk, And This Is Accepted By Everyone; In France, Drunkenness Is A Consequence, Never An Intention. A Drink Is Felt As The Spinning Out Of A Pleasure, Not As The Necessary Cause Of An Effect Which Is Sought: Wine Is Not Only A Philtre, It Is Also The Leisurely Act Of Drinking.

Language Is A Skin: I Rub My Language Against The Other. It Is As If I Had Words Instead Of Fingers, Or Fingers At The Tip Of My Words. My Language Trembles With Desire.

I Encounter Millions Of Bodies In My Life; Of These Millions, I May Desire Some Hundreds; But Of These Hundreds, I Love Only One.