Perhaps What I Do Not Manage To

I Am Not Innocent. Innocence Is A Science Of The Sublime. And I Am Only At The Very Beginning Of The Apprenticeship.

And I Was Afraid. She Frightens Me Because She Can Knock Me Down With A Word. Because She Does Not Know That Writing Is Walking On A Dizzying Silence Setting One Word After The Other On Emptiness. Writing Is Miraculous And Terrifying Like The Flight Of A Bird Who Has No Wings But Flings Itself Out And Only Gets Wings By Flying.

You Only Have To Look At The Medusa Straight On To See Her. And She's Not Deadly. She's Beautiful And She's Laughing.

The Only Book That Is Worth Writing Is The One We Don’t Have The Courage Or Strength To Write. The Book That Hurts Us (we Who Are Writing), That Makes Us Tremble, Redden, Bleed

She Alone Dares And Wishes To Know From Within, Where She, The Outcast, Has Never Ceased To Hear The Resonance Of Fore Language. She Lets The Other Language Speak - The Language Of 1,000 Tongues Which Knows Neither Enclosure Nor Death. To Life She Refuses Nothing. Her Language Does Not Contain, It Carries; It Does Not Hold Back; It Makes Possible.