There Is Nothing Outside Of The Text.

There Is Nothing Outside The Text

Whatever Precautions You Take So The Photograph Will Look Like This Or That, There Comes A Moment When The Photograph Surprises You. It Is The Other's Gaze That Wins Out And Decides.

But Because Me And Myself, As You No Doubt Are Well Aware, We Are Going To Die, My Relation—and Yours Too—to The Event Of This Text, Which Otherwise Never Quite Makes It, Our Relation Is That Of A Structurally Posthumous Necessity. Suppose, In That Case, That I Am Not Alone In My Claim To Know The Idiomatic Code (whose Notion Itself Is Already Contradictory) Of This Event. What If Somewhere, Here Or There, There Are Shares In This Non-secret’s Secret? Even So The Scene Would Not Be Changed. The Accomplices, As You Are Once Again Well Aware, Are Also Bound To Die.

I Am One Of Those Marranes Who No Longer Say They Are Jews Even In The Secret Of Their Own Hearts.

I Do Not Believe In Pure Idioms. I Think There Is Naturally A Desire, For Whoever Speaks Or Writes, To Sign In An Idiomatic, Irreplaceable Manner.