Who Speaks Is Not Who Writes, And

I Am Simultaneously And Contradictorily Both Happy And Unhappy: 'to Succeed' Or 'to Fail' Have For Me Only Ephemeral, Contingent Meanings (this Does Not Stop My Desires And Sorrows From Being Violent Ones); What Impels Me, Secretly And Obstinately, Is Not Tactical: I Accept And I Affirm, Irrespective Of The True And The False, Of Success And Failure; I Am Withdrawn From All Finality, I Live According To Chance.

Who Speaks Is Not Who Writes, And Who Writes Is Not Who Is.

The Gesture Of The Amorous Embrace Seems To Fulfill, For A Time, The Subject's Dream Of Total Union With The Loved Being: The Longing For Consummation With The Other.

...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.

Wine Is A Part Of Society Because It Provides A Basis Not Only For A Morality But Also For An Environment; It Is An Ornament In The Slightest Ceremonials Of French Daily Life, From The Snack To The Feast, From The Conversation At The Local Caft To The Speech At A Formal Dinner.