Who Ever Said That One Was Born

The Circle Of The Return To Birth Can Only Remain Open, But This Is A Chance, A Sign Of Life, And A Wound.

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.

These Critics Organize And Practice In My Case A Sort Of Obsessive Personality Cult Which Philosophers Should Know How To Question And Above All, To Moderate.

The Blindness That Opens The Eye Is Not The One That Darkens Vision. Tears And Not Sight Are The Essence Of The Eye.

I Would Like To Write You So Simply, So Simply, So Simply. Without Having Anything Ever Catch The Eye, Excepting Yours Alone, ... So That Above All The Language Remains Self-evidently Secret, As If It Were Being Invented At Every Step, And As If It Were Burning Immediately