Beyond The Touchline There Is Nothing.

What Is Called "objectivity," Scientific For Instance (in Which I Firmly Believe, In A Given Situation) Imposes Itself Only Within A Context Which Is Extremely Vast, Old, Firmly Established, Or Rooted In A Network Of Conventions ... And Yet Which Still Remains A Context.

The Poet…is The Man Of Metaphor: While The Philosopher Is Interested Only In The Truth Of Meaning, Beyond Even Signs And Names, And The Sophist Manipulates Empty Signs…the Poet Plays On The Multiplicity Of Signifieds.

My Most Resolute Opponents Believe That I Am Too Visible, That I Am A Little Too Alive, That My Name Echoes Too Much In The Texts Which They Nevertheless Claim To Be Inaccessible.

There Is A Future Which Is Predictable, Programmed, Scheduled, Foreseeable. But There Is A Future, L'avenir (to Come) Which Refers To Someone Who Comes Whose Arrival Is Totally Unexpected. For Me, That Is The Real Future. That Which Is Totally Unpredictable. The Other Who Comes Without My Being Able To Anticipate Their Arrival. So If There Is A Real Future, Beyond The Other Known Future, It Is L'avenir In That It Is The Coming Of The Other When I Am Completely Unable To Foresee Their Arrival.

It Is To Have A Compulsive, Repetitive, And Nostalgic Desire For The Archive, An Irrepressible Desire To Return To The Origin, A Homesickness, A Nostalgia For The Return To The Most Archaic Place Of Absolute Commencement