My Point Is Not That Everything Is

Confined On The Ship, From Which There Is No Escape, The Madman Is Delivered To The River With Its Thousand Arms, The Sea With Its Thousand Roads, To That Great Uncertainty External To Everything. He Is A Prisoner In The Midst Of What Is The Freest, The Openest Of Routes: Bound Fast At The Infinite Crossroads. He Is The Passenger Par Excellence: That Is, The Prisoner Of The Passage. And The Land He Will Come To Is Unknown—as Is, Once He Disembarks, The Land From Which He Comes. He Has His Truth And His Homeland Only In That Fruitless Expanse Between Two Countries That Cannot Belong To Him.

I Belong To That Generation Who, As Students, Had Before Their Eyes, And Were Limited By, A Horizon Consisting Of Marxism, Phenomenology And Existentialism. For Me The Break Was First Beckett's Waiting For Godot, A Breathtaking Performance.

Confession Frees, But Power Reduces One To Silence; Truth Does Not Belong To The Order Of Power, But Shares An Origincal Affinity With Freedom: Traditional Themes In Philosophy, Which A Political History Of Truth Would Have To Overturn By Showing That Truth Is Not By Nature Free--nor Error Servile--but That Its Production Is Thoroughly Imbued With Relations Of Power. The Confession Is An Example Of This.

To Punish Is The Most Difficult Thing There Is. A Society Such As Ours Needs To Question Every Aspect Of Punishment As It Is Practiced Everywhere: In The Army, The Schools, The Factories.

Where There Is Power, There Is Resistance.