Weak Thoughts, Weak Desires: He Felt Their

To See Was Terrifying, And To Stop Seeing Tore Me Apart From My Forehead To My Throat.

But My Silence Is Real. If I Hid It From You, You Would Find It Again A Little Farther On.

My Being Subsists Only From A Supreme Point Of View Which Is Precisely Incompatible With My Point Of View. The Perspective In Which I Fade Away For My Eyes Restores Me As A Complete Image For The Unreal Eye To Which I Deny All Images. A Complete Image With Reference To A World Devoid Of Image Which Imagines Me In The Absence Of Any Imaginable Figure. The Being Of A Nonbeing Of Which I Am The Infinitely Small Negation Which It Instigates As Its Profound Harmony. In The Night Shall I Become The Universe?

To Write Is To Make Oneself The Echo Of What Cannot Cease Speaking - And Since It Cannot, In Order To Become Its Echo I Have, In A Way, To Silence It. I Bring To This Incessant Speech The Decisiveness, The Authority Of My Own Silence.

A Writer Never Reads His Work. For Him, It Is The Unreadable, A Secret, And He Cannot Remain Face To Face With It. A Secret, Because He Is Separated From It.