One Makes War To Win, Not Because

... We Are Obliged To Produce The Truth By The Power That Demands Truth And Needs It In Order To Function: We Are Constrained, We Are Condemned To Admit The Truth Or To Discover It. Power Constantly Asks Questions And Questions Us; It Constantly Investigates And Records; It Institutionalizes The Search For The Truth, Professionalizes It, And Rewards It. ... In A Different Sense, We Are Also Subject To The Truth In The Sense That Truth Lays Down The Law: It Is The Discourse Of Truth That Decides, At Least In Part; It Conveys And Propels Effects Of Power.

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.

In Writing, The Point Is Not To Manifest Or Exalt The Act Of Writing, Nor Is It To Pin A Subject Within Language; It Is, Rather, A Question Of Creating A Space Into Which The Writing Subject Constantly Disappears.

Do Not Think That One Has To Be Sad In Order To Be Militant, Even Though The Thing One Is Fighting Is Abominable.

The Gaze That Sees Is The Gaze That Dominates.