I Love Language As I Love Life

I Have Always Had School Sickness, As Others Have Seasickness. I Cried When It Was Time To Go Back To School Long After I Was Old Enough To Be Ashamed Of Such Behavior.

One Often Speaks Without Seeing, Without Knowing, Without Meaning What One Says.

Everything Is Arranged So That It Be This Way, This Is What Is Called Culture.

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.

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.