Beauty Only Happens Once.

In Algeria, I Had Begun To Get Into Literature And Philosophy. I Dreamed Of Writing-and Already Models Were Instructing The Dream, A Certain Language Governed It.

The Boarding-school Experience In Paris Was Very Hard, I Didn't Put Up With It Very Well. I Was Sick All The Time, Or In Any Case Frail, On The Edge Of A Nervous Breakdown.

A Text Is Not A Text Unless It Hides From The First Comer, From The First Glance, The Law Of Its Composition And The Rules Of Its Game. A Text Remains, Moreover, Forever Imperceptible. Its Laws And Rules Are Not, However, Harbored In The Inaccessibility Of A Secret; It Is Simply That They Can Never Be Booked, In The Present, Into Anything That Could Rigorously Be Called A Perception.

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

Contrary To What Phenomenology- Which Is Always Phenomenology Of Perception- Has Tried To Make Us Believe, Contrary To What Our Desire Cannot Fail To Be Tempted Into Believing, The Thing Itself Always Escapes.