Those Who Fail To Reread

Contemporary Poetry ... Tries To Transform The Sign Back Into Meaning: Its Ideal, Ultimately, Would Be To Reach Not The Meaning Of Words, But The Meaning Of Things Themselves. This Is Why It Clouds The Language, Increases As Much As It Can The Abstractness Of The Concept And The Arbitrariness Of The Sign And Stretches To The Limit The Link Between Signifier And Signified.

Am I In Love? --yes, Since I Am Waiting. The Other One Never Waits. Sometimes I Want To Play The Part Of The One Who Doesn't Wait; I Try To Busy Myself Elsewhere, To Arrive Late; But I Always Lose At This Game. Whatever I Do, I Find Myself There, With Nothing To Do, Punctual, Even Ahead Of Time. The Lover's Fatal Identity Is Precisely This: I Am The One Who Waits.

...what I Enjoy In A Narrative Is Not Directly Its Content Or Even Its Structure, But Rather The Abrasions I Impose Upon The Fine Surface: I Read On, I Skip, I Look Up, I Dip In Again. Which Has Nothing To Do With The Deep Laceration The Text Of Bliss Inflicts Upon Language Itself, And Not Upon The Simple Temporality Of Its Reading.

Every Exploration Is An Appropriation.

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.