Beauty Only Happens Once.

The End Approaches, But The Apocalypse Is Long Lived.

I Wrote Some Bad Poetry That I Published In North African Journals, But Even As I Withdrew Into This Reading, I Also Led The Life Of A Kind Of Young Hooligan.

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.

Every Discourse, Even A Poetic Or Oracular Sentence, Carries With It A System Of Rules For Producing Analogous Things And Thus An Outline Of Methodology.

As Soon As There Is Language, Generality Has Entered The Scene.