The Text Is Not A Definitive Object.

Physically, The Ventoux Is Dreadful. Bald, It's The Spirit Of Dry: Its Climate (it Is Much More An Essence Of Climate Than A Geographic Place) Makes It A Damned Terrain, A Testing Place For Heroes, Something Like A Higher Hell.

The Text Is Plural. Which Is Not Simply To Say That It Has Several Meanings, But That It Accomplishes The Very Plural Of Meaning: An Irreducible (and Not Merely An Acceptable) Plural. The Text Is Not A Co-existence Of Meanings But A Passage, An Overcrossing; Thus It Answers Not To An Interpretation, Even A Liberal One, But To An Explosion, A Dissemination.

Television Doomed Us To The Family, Whose Household Instrument It Has Become-what The Hearth Used To Be, Flanked By The Communal Kettle.

Literature Is That Which He Can Not Read Without Pain, Without Choking On Truth.

As A Jealous Man, I Suffer Four Times Over: Because I Am Jealous, Because I Blame Myself For Being So, Because I Fear That My Jealousy Will Wound The Other, Because I Allow Myself To Be Subject To A Banality: I Suffer From Being Excluded, From Being Aggressive, From Being Crazy, And From Being Common.