Thus Every Writer's Motto Reads: Mad I

The Text Is Not A Definitive Object.

In Front Of The Photograph Of My Mother As A Child, I Tell Myself: She Is Going To Die: I Shudder, Like Winnicott's Psychotic Patient, Over A Catastrophe Which Has Already Occurred. Whether Or Not The Subject Is Already Dead, Every Photograph Is This Catastrophe.

It Is No Longer The Sexual Which Is Indecent, It Is The Sentimental.

Myth Is Neither A Lie Nor A Confession: It Is An Inflexion.

The Petit-bourgeois Is A Man Unable To Imagine The Other. If He Comes Face To Face With Him, He Blinds Himself, Ignores And Denies Him, Or Else Transforms Him Into Himself.