As The Archaeology Of Our

What Desire Can Be Contrary To Nature Since It Was Given To Man By Nature Itself?

Confined On The Ship, From Which There Is No Escape, The Madman Is Delivered To The River With Its Thousand Arms, The Sea With Its Thousand Roads, To That Great Uncertainty External To Everything. He Is A Prisoner In The Midst Of What Is The Freest, The Openest Of Routes: Bound Fast At The Infinite Crossroads. He Is The Passenger Par Excellence: That Is, The Prisoner Of The Passage. And The Land He Will Come To Is Unknown—as Is, Once He Disembarks, The Land From Which He Comes. He Has His Truth And His Homeland Only In That Fruitless Expanse Between Two Countries That Cannot Belong To Him.

People Know What They Do; Frequently They Know Why They Do What They Do; But What They Don't Know Is What What They Do Does.

[l]et Us Say That We Are Obliged To Produce The Truth By The Power That Demands Truth And Needs It In Order To Function: We Are Forced To Tell The Truth, We Are Constrained, We Are Condemned To Admit The Truth Or To Discover It.

We Demand That Sex Speak The Truth And We Demand That It Tell Us Our Truth, Or Rather, The Deeply Buried Truth Of That Truth About Ourselves Wich We Think We Possess In Our Immediate Consciousness.