There Is No Glory In Punishing

Thought Is Not What Inhabits A Certain Conduct And Gives It Its Meaning; Rather, It Is What Allows One To Step Back From This Way Of Acting Or Reacting, To Present It To Oneself As An Object Of Thought And To Question It As To Its Meaning, Its Conditions, And Its Goals. Thought Is Freedom In Relation To What One Does, The Motion By Which One Detaches From It, Establishes It As An Object, And Reflects On It As A Problem.

The Best Moment Of Love Is When The Lover Leaves In The Taxi.

Chance Does Not Speak Essentially Through Words Nor Can It Be Seen In Their Convolution. It Is The Eruption Of Language, Its Sudden Appearance. It's Not A Night Twinkle With Stars, An Illuminated Sleep, Nor A Drowsy Vigil. It Is The Very Edge Of Consciousness.

To Seek In The Great Accumulation Of The Already-said The Text That Resembles "in Advance" A Later Text, To Ransack History In Order To Rediscover The Play Of Anticipations Or Echoes, To Go Right Back To The First Seeds Or To Go Forward To The Last Traces, To Reveal In A Work Its Fidelity To Tradition Or Its Irreducible Uniqueness, To Raise Or Lower Its Stock Of Originality, To Say That The Port -royal Grammarians Invented Nothing, Or To Discover That Cuvier Had More Predecessors Than One Thought, These Are Harmless Enough Amusements For Historians Who Refuse To Grow Up.

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.